Inception: Eradication
by Savari07
Summary: An Arthur and Ariadne pairing fic. Saito is found comatose several months after the Fischer job, victim to a concept known as Eradication. Fearing he was targeted because of Inception, the rest of the team prepares to hunt down his attacker.
1. Storm Rising

**Eradication**

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**I do not own Inception.**

**This fic will be ArthurxAriadne**

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Three weeks after Inception, Saito was drunk at his daughter's wedding reception. She had been married to the son of a corporate giant, and the pairing had already been mentioned in the tabloids as the new celebrity couple of the year.

It was at the reception, just after the cake had been cut, after Saito had given his half-slurred speech to his new son-in-law, when someone mentioned the dissolution of the Fischer company.

Saito's inebriated state loosened his tongue. He bragged that he knew exactly why Fischer dissolved the most powerful, successful energy corporation in the known world – but would not tell the reason. He bragged that the world owed him a debt of gratitude for avoiding the tyranny of the Fischer superpower. He bragged, but gave no details.

His family attributed it to his drunken state and well-known pride. His friends joked he was a super-hero. He went home after kissing his daughter on the forehead and avoiding his mistress in the bar; he woke the next morning without remembering much of the night.

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It had been five months since Inception.

Arthur strode down the Parisian street with a steady, unbroken gait. He had one bag slung across his right shoulder, and a silver briefcase in his left hand. There was a Beretta strapped across his chest, hidden under the gray over-piece of his suit.

At the third apartment complex from the main street, he slipped inside after another resident; the complex was mostly inhabited by college students, and Ariadne lived on the fourth floor, sixth room down. She had never told him this; he had discovered it on his own, about a month ago, after the heat had died down from their first Inception.

When Ariadne answered the door, the look on her face was unusual. Arthur, who was not prone to facial expression, could only describe it as a confusing mix of amazement, relief, and apprehension. A red flush came into her cheeks as he entered, and he felt that odd, tight feeling in his chest.

"Cobb's flight to London will arrive tonight. We'll need to meet him at Heathrow," Arthur had never been to Ariadne's apartment before – had no way of knowing where she kept the tarnished maroon suitcase she used on her travels – but he strode straight to the closet and pulled it from the top shelf. Ariadne felt dimly aware that his expertise in locating the suitcase was most likely due to the sharp, subtle intelligence of his nature.

"Pack only what you need," he said simply, and placed the suitcase on the bed. Ariadne felt herself obeying instinctively – these people moved fast in this line of business.

"So - we have a job?" Ariadne had a hard time concealing the eagerness in her voice. She'd been out of contact with the rest of the team for several months; after Fischer dissolved the company, Saito could not resist subtle bragging of his own involvement. This led to the suspicion that something underhanded had been achieved; extractors and other dream-agents came under fire, and aside from Cobb – who had all his charges dropped – the team was forced underground to avoid revealing their own involvement. Ariadne, less at risk than the others, resumed her schooling with a more unenthusiastic attitude. The professors commented that her designs had never been more radical; her art had improved exponentially; her concepts pushed boundaries and questioned artistic laws. She had never been better at creating, and never more frustrated at her inability to do it. She craved shared dreaming. She packed quickly and almost without seeing what she threw into the suitcase.

"Cobb contacted me a few days ago and told me to meet him in London," was Arthur's reply. Since removing Ariadne's suitcase, he had not stirred from his position in the room. He seemed to be examining the raw, untidy mess that was the artist's workspace – the clothes thrown half-hazardly throughout the room, hanging on the backs of chairs and bedposts; the empty take-out boxes and cut-up magazines lying on her desks, strewn with dulled charcoal pencils and gum erasers; and every inch of wall space, coated with M.C. Escher hangings, photographs of famous building, the Taj Mahal, Habitat 67 at Montreal – and sketches obviously aimed at the dreamspace, mazes and complicated constructions of buildings, cities, gardens – even caverns and underwater systems.

"Sorry about the mess," Ariadne was aware of what a contradiction Arthur made in the middle of her war-torn room. His pressed gray suit, polished oxfords, slicked black hair – he looked like a company statue in the midst of a Picasso painting.

"Wouldn't kill you to leave room to walk," Arthur said, with only the slightest eyebrow raise and hint of a smile. Just before they left, he took note to take a few of her sketches from the wall and tuck them neatly into his briefcase. Ariadne noticed, and found she didn't want to stop him.

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They arrived in London by helicopter. The drone of the aircraft was so loud it made conversation almost impossible without screaming your lungs out; in effect, Ariadne was unable to ask Arthur any questions about the job. During the few hours of air-time, however, Arthur took the opportunity to examine a few of the sketches he had taken from her apartment. His expression never seemed to alter as he studied them, but Ariadne liked to imagine a glitter of delight often entered his eye.

They landed in the parking lot of a warehouse adjacent, somewhat, to London Heathrow Airport. Ariadne was under the impression they would be waiting for Cobb in the terminal, but Arthur led her instead towards the warehouse.

"So - it's just you and me?" she asked hesitantly. Arthur, who was pulling up the warehouse door, raised his eyebrow suggestively at her question. Ariadne felt herself flush. "I mean, you said..."

"Eames and Cobb will be here within the hour. Yusuf arrives tomorrow. You're here to help me set up," Arthur's face remained expressionless, as it almost always was; but there was that glimmer in his eyes that Ariadne had come to know as a smile.

"So... how is Cobb doing?" the question had been on Ariadne's mind ever since Inception. She liked to believe that Cobb had let go of Mal, but she had been such a strong presence in his mind, she doubted his ability to release her. "I… I didn't think he'd want to be involved in this kind of work anymore."

The warehouse was dank and musty, and filled with half-molded furniture. She began by pushing back the unusable chairs against the wall to clear a space, and felt Arthur's eyes on her.

"I can't say why he's coming back in. We haven't talked much – it's been risky for me to go stateside," he answered in a relaxed, but still unaffected tone. Ariadne, however, imagined she caught a hint of worry.

"Why is it risky?" she felt herself impelled to ask. They continued to clear floor space; a trailer outside held a number of lawn chairs and desks that they would be using during their shared dreaming, and would move inside later on.

Arthur gave Ariadne a look, as though he was hesitant to answer her question. Something pulled inside Ariadne whenever his eyes were on her; the steady, piercing gaze he had seemed to look through her, into her, like he was reading and evaluating her soul. The feeling of his eyes - those intelligent, studying eyes - it always made her feel... naked.

"...I suppose I can tell you, since I don't work for the states anymore," he seemed to decide out loud. "Before I became part of Cobb's team, I was involved in high-security intelligence work for the United States military."

"What does that mean?" Ariadne asked, even though she was unsure if Arthur would be allowed to answer. Arthur, however, didn't seem to mind much; they walked together from the warehouse to the trailer, and began to pull lawn chairs from the back.

"It means I hacked and stole information from the military systems of other governments," he said, so evenly that Ariadne did a double take. "I was trained to acquire information through any means necessary, and I excelled at it. I was also involved, for some time, in training military units through the dream space, and helping government officials to militarize their subconscious."

"Well..." Ariadne didn't know what to say. The gravity of what he'd said seemed to weigh on her in a strangely appealing and terrifying way. The idea that Arthur had actually worked in theft for the government - had trained in the military - had done secret and unimaginable things for those invisible superpowers that ran the world - it sent a shiver down her spine, and she found herself in incredible awe of the Point Man.

"So, why is it risky for you to be in America?" she asked, dragging a lawn chair inside.

"After I became part of Cobb's team, I renounced work with the government. They typically don't like it when you do that," Arthur said it with a very subtle smile. "I can still go stateside, but only when I'm on good terms with the authorities. After Inception, which involved Fischer - an American company - I was on unstable footing."

Ariadne found herself drawn to everything Arthur said. The Point Man rarely spoke unless there was a need to speak; his comments were blunt and to the point; his questions were direct; his answers were absolute. Hearing him talk so clearly and simply about what Ariadne perceived as a radical life almost numbed her with intrigue. They were nearly done setting up the workshop when they reached this point in conversation; Ariadne felt herself flush as an infinite number of questions flooded her head. Instead, she decided the tactful thing to do would be to cease her interrogation.

"So, now what?" Ariadne asked, examining the set up. Arthur had placed the silver briefcase on the table in the midst of the lounge chairs, and sent Ariadne another subtle, witty expression.

"We've got about twenty minute before Cobb's flight arrives. How about testing out a few of your new designs?"

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"So I recreated the top level to actually coincide with the bottom - that way they can't escape from the roof..."

Arthur leaned over the edge of the rooftop only to see a checkered red floor - the base of the hotel lobby. How it reconnected with this level, when he was sure he had traversed eight flights of stairs upwards, bewildered and impressed him.

"You're designs continue to amaze me, Ariadne," he said simply. "This would be excellent in use with a corrupted government official. Maybe someone hiding a secret affair or transaction."

"You're always thinking about work aren't you?" Ariadne found herself smiling. Arthur stepped boldly out onto the checkered floor, tested its strength by jumping subtly up and down, and then stepped back onto the rooftop with an unreadable expression.

"Not always," he said. His expression was still unreadable, but something in the soft, deep way he said it made Ariadne feel a glow. The sky of her dreamscape turned slowly to a warm orange.

Ariadne noticed the change; if Arthur did, he didn't let on that he noticed - but the projections traversing the floors below - Arthur's projections - seemed to stir a little bit like a beehive.

"Arthur, I've been wondering something," Ariadne said slowly, struck by the recurring idea now that she was altering his dream-reality. Arthur said nothing in response, but waited patiently for her to continue. There was a comfort and acceptance in his silence that made it feel soothing within the dream. "Mal was one of Cobb's projections, and he was unable to... control it. Do you think any of our projections could ever be brought in like that? I mean - how do we stop our own projections from coming into the dreamspace?"

Arthur seemed to seriously consider Ariadne's words. He looked at her for a long while. Ariadne felt it in the dream like a lingering sense of suspense and excitement.

"Cobb's projection of Mal was much stronger than any of our projections. There was much more emotional connection behind his concept of Mal. The more emotionally attached the subconscious is to something, the more powerful it is, and the more difficult it is to keep out of dream-sharing," was his answer.

"...I supposed you haven't had trouble with that," Ariadne said, before she could stop herself. Part of her mind told her the comment was rude - and part of her wanted to say it anyway, just to gauge, if she could, whether Arthur really did have any emotional responses.

"I keep my emotions in check as much as possible, in order to avoid complicating the job. That doesn't mean I don't have them," he didn't seem offended when he said it. Ariadne took a concentrated look at him; he was poised on the edge of her maze, gazing back at her with a smile lingering in the corner of his mouth. But they were in a dream, and it wasn't so much that she saw him smile; she felt him smile, like a warm breeze, like a relaxed, easy feeling. She was dimly aware of the idea that _he_ was smiling at _her_.

"How have you been the last few months?" Arthur's question came out unexpectedly, and interrupted her feeling with a rushed sense of excitement.

"...My professors love me," she admitted. "They say they've never seen designs like mine. Like my imagination is infinite."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Arthur said quietly. Ariadne felt comforted at his gentle recognition of her talent.

"Yeah, well... it's nothing like this. I've been..." she looked for the right word. "...I've been craving this. This kind of creation."

As she spoke, the rooftop of the building slowly melted down. Grass sprang upwards. A tree grew in twisting, golden haste from the half-crumbled concrete and foliage; lights appeared in his branches, tiny lights from a hundred fragile paper lanterns. It left a misty, blue glow beneath the orange sky; projections paused to stare at the great, golden-barked tree, to stare momentarily at Ariadne.

"...It may sound strange," Arthur said from beside Ariadne, who found him standing quite close to her shoulder. "But I've been missing it too. The dreamspace isn't the same without you in it. Creating it."

Ariadne realized then, with silent satisfaction, why Arthur had taken the sketches from her wall. Why he'd decided to go into a shared dream with her twenty minutes before Cobb arrived. She realized he missed her creations.

Maybe he'd even missed her.

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The team was fully assembled the next day, with the exception of Saito. The Japanese corporate owner had orchestrated this second job for reasons unknown to the team, aside from the Extractor. Cobb looked disheveled and bothered when he walked in; Ariadne was reminded of the moment he laid eyes on the train as it barreled down the midst of her city street – that deep and penetrating disturbance.

"Where's Saito?" Arthur leaned back in his chair, his notebook open and ready on his lap. Ariadne had to let a slight smile escape her; the Point Man was already prepared to take notes, on something as indescribable as Extraction. Cobb took in a deep breath.

"Saito, as I'm sure you're all aware, has been less than discrete about Inception. A few weeks after Fischer dissolved the company, he bragged to one of his higher officials that he had saved the world from Fischer's total energy dominance. This led to investigations which left us all at risk -"

"Excuse me for interrupting, but I think we're all very aware of that situation," Eames added in, spinning idly in his chair. "I got a bullet in the leg in Cairo because of our little Japanese darling. Can we speed past to the job?"

"Patience is a virtue, Eames. Listen and you might learn something important," Arthur responded with some tension in his voice. Ariadne felt herself smile.

"Very sorry Arthur, you know I'd _never _offend you. It's just, I'm having a hard time understanding why we're working for the man who put our heads on the chopping block a few months ago," Eames took out his totem - the blue and red-streaked poker chip he carried with him - and began flipping it between his fingers. Arthur shook his head and turned back to his notebook.

"We aren't working for Saito exactly," Cobb said, and Ariadne felt a storm brewing around the Extractor. He didn't seem able to look at the Architect, or at Arthur for that matter. "Saito asked for my help, but he's unable to hire us anymore."

"What?" Yusuf gave the Extractor a very dumbfounded look. "Are you telling us this job has no payment?"

"Dearie, I have several little debts in roulette this month, and I'm not taking a job unless it helps them disappear," Eames stood and began putting on his jacket. "Good luck to you all, but I'll sit this one out if you like –"

"I wouldn't do that, Eames," Cobb's voice was tense, and Ariadne found herself looking at Arthur. The Point Man was frozen, and staring uncertainly at the Extractor's face – like he knew there was something hidden there.

"Why not? Never take a job for free, that's bloody mad, isn't it?"

"Because if we don't do this job, we might end up like Saito."

Something in the way he said this made even Eames pause. Arthur leaned forward in his chair and closed the notebook. Araidne shifted uncomfortably as Yusuf took an uncertain glance around the room.

"Three days ago I was sitting at home with my children, planning to go to Phillipa's ballet recital – the first one I'd ever been to," Cobb said it lowly, and the pain and regret was written clearly on his face. "At four pm I received a call from Saito's personal number. He was – stressed, to put it gently – and convinced that someone was trying to invade his mind."

"He may have residual trauma from being trapped in limbo," Yusuf suggested hopefully – but a look from Cobb silenced the Chemist.

"I know it. And I tried to tell him that such paranoia is often common after dream-sharing. He wouldn't listen. He was willing to pay anything – everything he had – for me to come in and protect his mind. He claimed someone knew of Inception, and was trying to destroy him in response. But my first instinct was to refuse the job."

"So what brought you around?" Arthur asked evenly. Ariadne wondered if he was feeling the same sense of dread that she was. Ever calm, Arthur seemed immune to the suspense Cobb was throwing over them.

"This."

Cobb had lifted his arm and placed a photograph on the warehouse bulletin board behind him. The picture was of Saito; he was lying in a starched, white hospital bed with tubes coming from his mouth and nose, lines and needles pressed into his arms, his face pale as the bed he lay on. Eames seemed to twitch involuntarily before sitting back down. Arthur only stared at the picture with an intense, unwavering focus.

"…What happened to him?" Ariadne asked tentatively. All eyes were on Cobb, but the Extractor's eyes were on the Point Man.

"He's in a coma," Arthur said sideways to her, and then turned to Cobb. "Isn't he?"

"Yes. Yesterday morning a member of Saito's entourage brought me this picture. He said the doctor could find no natural cause for his state. They are starting to believe his coma is a result of a dream-agent entering his subconscious – entering it, and destroying it."

"Destroy it?" Ariadne felt a tug of fear pull inside her at the idea. She felt everyone's eyes turn on her. "I thought the subconscious would destroy the dreamer. How can you even attempt to attack the subconscious without the projections turning on you?"

"That's what we need to find out," Cobb replied. "The concept is a not a new one, but it's not a job any normal dream-agent would take. It's typically referred to as Eradication. If Saito's event did have something to do with Inception, then we're all risk. We need to find out who did this, and why."

"So it's the old, 'our lives at stake' bit, is it?" Eames hummed to himself, but it was obvious he was more uncomfortable than he acted. "That's well good. I'm assuming you have someone for me to impersonate or question?"

"Just Saito," and there was a tired, drawn look on Cobb's face, as he rubbed the back of his neck. "But he's had his subconscious destroyed and is probably suffering brain damage. He'll be unable to give us information - at least not consciously. In order to get a handle on things, Arthur - you'll have to research Saito's enemies and find any possible motives for destroying him, including Inception. Look up everything you can on advocates for Fischer – but try and avoid contact with Fischer himself. We don't need to draw his attention back to us."

"I'll open some research on other dream-agents too," Arthur added in an even tone, scribbling something in his notes. "See if any of them have had contact with Fischer or Saito."

"Do it as fast as possible and have it ready when I come back," Cobb didn't need to say it, really; he knew Arthur was quick and skilled at his research. "Eames and I are flying to Tokyo in the morning to share dreams with Saito. He can't tell us anything in reality, but perhaps there's still something leftover in his mind that will provide a clue."

"You'll need to have very light sedation if you're going into a broken mind," Yusuf noted in a warning. "A subconscious with possible brain damage is highly unstable and inconsistent. Dreams can collapse, and projections can attack without warning, even if you haven't done anything to draw attention."

"Well then, Yusuf, come along and keep a check on us," Eames grinned. "If we get killed every five minutes inside the man's head, we'll need you around to keep putting us under."

"What about me?" Ariadne asked. She always felt like new blood in a group of old warriors; always overlooked, until the odd moment Cobb complimented her designs, or when... Arthur stole a kiss.

"You'll stay with Arthur," Cobb nodded to Ariadne with a maternal air. "I don't want you coming near places where Eradication has taken place. If the man doing this discovers us, he can come after us. You need to stay and train with Arthur to militarize your own subconscious and develop dream defenses."

"Well, how very sweet," Eames grinned again. "The stiff and the flower get to go on holiday while we do all the work, is it?"

"Jealousy is unbecoming of you, Eames," Arthur teased, and his tone and expression seemed mildly proud - as though he had enjoyed some small victory over Eames.


	2. Going Under

Cobb, Eames and Yusuf were on a plane by five the next morning. Eames was irritable from the early hour of departure; he ordered three or four mimosas on the flight, and was making moves on the attendant by six. Yusuf was absorbed in a German magazine for scientist enthusiasts, drawn in by an article on chemical thought manipulation. This left Cobb alone to dwell on James and Phillipa.

He had spent four months at home before the money started running out. He had seen Phillipa enter kindergarten, and James write down the alphabet. He had taken them to a carnival. He had lived in a dream, looking at their beautiful faces every day, almost spoiling them with his rapt attention and adoration. It only hurt, sometimes, that he could see Mal in their delicate faces.

But the money had, eventually, run out. He needed a job, and unfortunately, all of his expertise lay in the field of Extraction. In two months he wouldn't be able to pay his bills – in three months they would lose the house.

Saito's request had come as a blessing and a curse. Cobb had been hunting for a job for weeks before the call came. No positions were available; Saito had cleared his charges, but he had not supplied him with any employment support or resume, and Cobb would be damned before going to work for the government again. Saito sealed the deal by claiming that this time, aside from the usual payment, he would also ensure a permanent job for the Extractor. Cobb would never have to leave his children again.

But Cobb refused. He thought Saito was traumatized by his experience in limbo; that he was paranoid and over-reactive. The best thing to do was continue to hunt for a job, make the savings last a bit longer, and avoid contact with the Japanese business owner.

Fate seemed to have other plans. After seeing Saito's white, plastered, comatose face in the picture, Cobb had taken out his totem – the first time he'd done so in months – and spun it reassuringly until it dropped.

"So, exactly what am I going to do for excitement when you officially retire?" Eames asked suddenly, glancing at Cobb over his mimosa. Cobb gave him a bewildered look. "I mean, honestly – after Inception I tried two Extraction jobs, and neither of them were any near as good as that fiasco with Fischer. Now some bloke takes a gun to Saito's subconscious and we're back on death row. It's really fascinating, the sort of things that follow you around."

"I just need to make sure the team is safe," Cobb reasoned, more to himself than Eames. "After this, the excitement ends, and I never have to dream-share again."

Cobb had seen his children's faces before leaving this time. He had hugged the close for almost five minutes, had promised the separation wouldn't be as long as the last one. James promised to grow four inches taller by the time he returned. Phillipa promised to be good if Daddy brought home a dog.

"Well, if I do get my mind Eradicated," Eames added as an after-thought. "I hope you know I'm well on blaming you."

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It was eight in the morning when Ariadne awoke in her London airport hotel room. She was supposed to meet Arthur in the lobby in a half hour – in a disheveled rush, she tumbled in and out of the shower and threw on some jeans and a t-shirt. She was not concerned with appearing beautiful or even neat; she could look however she wanted, really, when she entered the dream with Arthur.

Arthur was not, of course, of the same mind. He was waiting for her in the lobby when she arrived, in a pressed buttoned shirt and tie, looking absolutely immaculate.

"Having sweet dreams, were we?" He teased gently. She was ten minutes late.

"They're about to get a lot sweeter," was her excited response. "Let's get to work."

"After you," Arthur held the lobby door open and they strode down the sidewalk towards the warehouse.

The set-up was just as they had left it the night before. The only thing missing was the silver briefcase; that, Arthur was sure to keep on his person at all times. The compounds and technology that resided in that simple carrying case were absolutely priceless.

"So… how often does this sort of job turn up?" Ariadne found herself asking. Arthur clicked open the briefcase and entered the compound into the mechanism.

"Eradication? Never. You're really getting a whimsical view of our job, Ariadne," Arthur seemed to say, almost to himself. "You're first assignment involves the first successful Inception I ever knew of, and you're second involves the very dangerous idea of Eradication."

"But… you have heard of it," Ariadne said hesitantly.

"I've heard of destroying certain parts of a subject's subconscious before," Arthur mused as he unwound the cords. "But occurrences like that always end with the dreamer being attacked by projections and expelled from the mind. I've never known anyone capable of complete Eradication."

"What _is_ Eradication?" Ariadne asked hesitantly, sitting slowly in the lawn chair. Arthur gave a visual sweep of the warehouse to make sure all the doors and windows were still shut; they didn't want anyone walking in on their unconscious bodies while they slept.

"Eradication is the destruction of a person's subconscious – or the destruction of their dream-space," Arthur answered evenly. The idea sent a shiver through Ariadne as she lay down in the chair.

"What happens if your dream-space is destroyed?" Ariadne asked, almost terrified to hear the answer. A very subtle, strange expression came over Arthur's face as he listened to the waver in her voice. He approached her and knelt beside her with the chord, rolling back her sleeve to gain access to her wrist. He paused before inserting the link.

"The subconscious is fueled by emotion or desire. It is filled with those things we subdue – bits of information or experiences, positive or negative emotions and attachments – things we do not regard consciously, but nonetheless influence us. It's like a filter, to keep our mind balanced. When the subconscious is destroyed, the mind becomes incapable of stabilizing. It breaks."

"…and you end up like Saito…" Ariadne was shaking slightly. Arthur put both hands on her wrist, and she was surprised to feel a sense of security as his calloused fingers touched her skin.

"I don't want to tell you this to scare you. Just to make you aware," and there really was a sort of apology in his voice. "And I don't want you to worry. I'll be with you whenever you go under."

This simple statement made a very warm feeling wash over Ariadne. She remembered the first layer of Inception, when they had kidnapped Fischer, and been assaulted by his projections; Arthur had not missed a step, had not panicked for a moment. He had done what he had to, without hesitation. She remembered watching him slam the taxi in reverse to capture a projection, to protect Fischer and Saito and Eames; she remembered him pulling Saito from the car with blood pooling down his chest; the way he loaded the automatic and strode towards the window to lay down cover fire; the cool, calculated way he rigged the explosives in the hotel room.

Eames seemed to see Arthur as an unimaginative, unfeeling sort. Everyone credited his involvement, but seemed to miss his absolute importance to the team. He was not the leader like Cobb, not the creator like Ariadne was - but he was the steady hand that kept the team together, that held everything in check even when the job went to hell, that stabilized and guided the varying instability of the others. He was an analyst and a soldier – selfless, absolute, who placed the rest of the team above himself. She looked at him and felt safe. He seemed infallible; fearless.

"I'll see you in a minute," he said, and slid the cord into her wrist. He laid down in the lawn chair beside her, inserting his own cord. Then he reached down and pressed the release in the silver suitcase.


	3. Safe

Ariadne was speaking with a vendor in a marketplace – an elderly black woman who was trying to sell her beaded clothe. It was crowded, sunny, and colorful; low stalls with straw roofs lined the rough dirt streets from one end to the other. A somewhat decrepit, stone-work cathedral was the tallest building in the area; the rest was low stalls and earthen houses lined with brick. The area was bordered with old shea trees with low, brilliant green branches. The projections – Arthur's projections – littered the market, mostly of dark complexions and toting baskets, barrels, or other satchels of goods. Donkeys and pack-laden horses also strolled in the market, but on the outskirts, where they would not interfere with business. She found she was in Togo, West Africa; it was a dreamscape she had designed after taking an African Cultural Studies course.

"It would look good on you," Arthur's voice was behind her, and she turned to see him in a buttoned shirt and brown leather jacket. His pristine appearance looked odd, even comical, in the crowded, dirty market.

"So – are you going to make your projections attack me?" Ariadne meant it as a tease, but secretly felt a waver of fear in her heart. She could never quite get over the idea that, even in a dream shared with Arthur – the man of the team she felt most safe with – the other people roaming the streets could, at any moment, rip her to pieces.

"Not quite yet," Arthur said, which didn't exactly make Ariadne feel better. "The first step to developing dream defenses is to realize you're dreaming. Then you can harness and train your subconscious."

"...But I already _do _know I'm dreaming," Ariadne said, but without as much confidence as she thought. Arthur began to stroll casually down the street, smiling just slightly at the Architect.

"In a shared dream like this, it's easy to know you're dreaming. There are others around you who came in with you, and you won't wake up as long as there's time on the clock. When you're on your own, though, you need to use other techniques - mainly your totem. You'll need to do checks, periodically, throughout the day, in order to establish reality and discern yourself from your dream-state."

"Checks?" Ariadne asked, but she was already thinking something else, and a river began to wind out from before her feet. Arthur's projections cast sidelong glances at the Architect, but then averted their attention.

"Yes. I check in with my totem at least a dozen times a day. You must evolve the habit so that, even when you're asleep, that same habit will pervade your subconscious, and you'll be able to tell it's a dream."

"That sounds like lucid dreaming," Ariadne thought, turning to Arthur. The Point Man let a small smile slip from the corner of his mouth.

"Exactly. The concept is the same. If you want to keep a dream-journal too, you can, but they've never helped me much..."

Ariadne wasn't really listening to Arthur anymore. She was getting very involved in the dream. The sun was warm, warm on her skin - she had imagined herself wearing only a tank-top - and the market was littered with brilliant sights and smells. She could almost taste curried chicken turning on a spit near them. She stopped before the stall and looked, with a sly little smile, at Arthur. The Point Man glanced hesitantly between her and the chicken.

"It isn't real, you know," he acknowledged. She shrugged nonchalantly, feeling more and more comfortable in this strange, realistic dream-world. She began to consider, in the back of her mind, what Arthur's next step would be.

He had mentioned something about training projections. Encouraged by the fact that she already felt comfortable recognizing her dream - up until this point, she had never once had a problem of discerning dreams from reality, as Cobb did - she decided to enter on this offer. She concentrated on something easy - school, maybe, or her apartment.

Her Drawings & Designs professor suddenly appeared in the street, looking uncertain and uncomfortable in the crowded row. Arthur's projections paused and stared at him - then turned and stared at the Architect. More or Ariadne's projections appear behind him; kids from the college, professors, janitors, even the dean -

"Ariadne," the tone of Arthur's voice had suddenly shifted, and she could feel the tension creeping from him. "Ariadne - what are you doing?"

"You said after I realized I was dreaming, I needed to train my projections - "

She felt her arm wrenched back, suddenly, violently. She had a brief, brilliant glimpse of a swarthy, black face - one of the vendors in the market, one of Arthur's projections - before a crushing, scalding feeling cracked into the back of her skull.

She collapsed to her knees with a halted, gasping cry. Three gunshots ran in quick succession above her, and between the throbbing of her wounded head and the blaring noise in her eardrums, she couldn't resist letting out another horrible cry of pain. In an instant, _her_ projections had vanished; Arthur's projections converged on her like a swarm - she could see them descend like a muddled, messed, mop of color and cold fury. In agony and confusion, she cried out for Arthur and threw herself down onto the dirt street.

Hands, nails, feet, elbows - everything seemed to collide with every inch of her, grasping, beating, bruising, gripping, ripping - at first she flailed, attempted to fight some of the projections off - but they grabbed at her arms and shirt, ripped her clothes, assaulted her unmercifully. Everything was a mess of cold, savagely concentrated faces, arms, hands, kicks, punches. Ariadne thrashed away and curled into herself, as tight as she could, on the dirt ground. Fists and feet pounded into her; her head swam; stars sprinkled in front of her eyes. She felt a slow trickle of blood down the back of her neck, from where the vendor had first attacked.

Gunshots rang out again, and there was some screaming from above her. She was crying into the dust, battered, her body all blossoming bruises. Someone grabbed her by both arms and lifted her upwards into the sunlight, out from beneath the shadows of the assaulting projections. She choked, coughed on what tasted like blood - her lip had been cut, sliced upwards by someone's sharp nail.

Another gunshot - this time very close to her ear, so that she flinched and stumbled into the dirt. She heard Arthur shouting, but couldn't figure out what he said.

All of sudden they were on her again, and she was back in the dirt. Ariadne realized, somewhere within the dream, that she was being beaten to death.

She tried to crawl. They grabbed her legs and held her down. The beat her body with pipes and logs and bats; she cried out, struggled, thrashed, but could do nothing. Then there was stabbing - she felt her inside punctured, ripped, and waves of unparalleled pain erupted inside her. She screamed, sobbed, kicked, and still they beat her, stabbed her, tore at her clothes, dug into her flesh, pressed their knees into her throat until she choked, choked, felt fire and water rise in her chest at the same time and all the sunlight faded out -

Ariadne gasped, screamed, took in a breathe so large she thought it would burst her lungs. She had thrown herself forward, and tumbled sideways out of the lawn chair, hitting the cement floor and ripping the cord from her wrist.

"You're ok - you're ok - Ariadne, look at me -"

It was Arthur's voice, but Ariadne flailed at the sound, backed up, positioned herself against the wall and drew her knees to her chest. Her body was shaking.

"Ariadne -"

"Don't!" Ariadne put out one wild, terrified hand towards Arthur. She was dimly aware that his subconscious had just ripped her to pieces - she was addled, distraught, unable to ground herself. Arthur's face swam in and out of focus. The next time he spoke, it sounded like he was speaking to her from underwater.

"Ariadne, your totem. Take out your totem. You'll see... you're fine..."

She found one hand rooting down into her pocket, blindly. She grabbed the small, gold chess piece, and ran her fingers across the smooth surface, searching for the one, almost imperceptible flaw - the tiny nick - that she alone knew. In the dream, the pawn was smooth, perfect. In reality, she had left one grainy patch, one small reminder.

She felt it just above the base. That miniscule, rough feeling.

She dropped the chess piece and buried her head in her knees, trying to hold back her sobs. Arthur's form was beside her the next instant; she could feel his arms around her, smell that subtle cologne on his vest. She melted weakly into him.

"It's alright. It wasn't real," Arthur's body was steady, so mind-numbingly steady, against Ariadne's shivering, quivering frame. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but another noise came out - a terrible heaving, gasping noise.

"You're hyperventalating. Take a deep breathe and hold it," Arthur said calmy.

Ariadne did as he asked. She closed her eyes as she held the breath, trying to assure herself that she was in reality, that no mob was going to rip her to pieces, that her body wasn't bruised and bloody. That she was sitting in a warehouse in London with Arthur. That everything was alright.

If she had been less distraught, she may have felt the Point Man's heart beating, beating, beating like a terrible drum in his chest. She may have noticed that his regular, studious calm was broken by the terrible guilt in his eyes, by how desperately he clutched her to his chest.

l-l

"...And I thought Cobb's subconscious was bad," Ariadne said, a little while later. "I'd take a stab from Mal over _that_ any day."

Arthur had packed away the equipment, for now, and was instead beginning to set up some model-building materials for the Architect. As he dumped open boxes of cardboard and plaster and paint, and arranged them neatly around the low desk work-space he had constructed for Ariadne, she sipped gently on a cup of real English tea. She couldn't be sure if he had made it or bought it, but it was bitter as hell. She drank it solely for comfort of its warmth.

"That's the worst of it," Arthur said, gently. "When you get ripped apart. Bullets and knives you learn to deal with. You never quite get over the mob-death."

"Why didn't you -" Ariadne felt herself pause, reconsider what she wanted to say. Arthur stopped his work, and fixed her with an unreadable look.

"...Why didn't I stop them?" he finished for her. Ariadne felt herself flush, as though she'd offended him. A brief, hurt look did seemed to flash through Arthur's eyes - she couldn't quite be sure - before he stood and walked to her side, sitting gently in a lawn chair.

"I tried, Ariadne," he said, and she could hear regret in his voice. "I tried. I pulled you out, once, but - there were too many."

Ariadne had a sudden memory of gunshots ringing in her ears - of being lifted towards the sunlight.

"...You were the one shooting," she said in swift realization. Arthur nodded easily.

"Yes. I managed to kill about six of my own projections, and one or two of yours," Arthur said, but there was no humor on his face. "That's why they attacked in the first place, Ariadne. Bringing in a crowd like that, of your own projections - it's like sending a regiment into enemy territory. Everything becomes war."

"...I'm sorry," Araidne felt herself saying. Her heart sank to her feet. Fear had turned to guilt, and to shame; it wasn't Arthur's fault that his subconscious had reacted so violently - she had jumped the gun, had acted without thinking. She felt low and numbingly stupid.

Arthur's hand was suddenly on hers, warm and huge on her small one.

"No. The training is my responsibility," he claimed with some dignity. There was a protective look in his eyes that made Ariadne's stomach flutter in a strange, pleasing way. "I want you to feel safe when you're dreaming with me, Ariadne. I want you to _know _you're safe."

"...I know I am, Arthur," she found herself saying, softly. Her heart beat gently in her chest. "It's... it really is just a dream. I should be more worried about reality."

She expected Arthur to nod, to release her hand, to go back to setting up her workspace. She was struck, somewhere within, by the selfless, generous way he was treating her - he was unpacking _her _belongings, without complaint, and distributing them in neat lines and piles. He was comforting _her _after an ordeal that had, in reality, been entirely her fault. He didn't have to set up her models; she could do it in the morning, or later tonight. He could do research, but he didn't; he could scold her for abusing the dream-space, but he didn't.

And Arthur could have let go of her hand, but he didn't. She felt him squeeze her fingers, gently, and their eyes met. That naked, penetrating feeling came over her again as his deep, brown eyes gazed at her. The scent of his cologne drifted off him, subtle, but masculine. She smelled it, and felt a deep warmth, more than the tea could provide, wash over her.

"...You're just as safe with me in reality, you know," he said quietly.

It was than he released her hand, and strode slowly back to her workspace. She watched him breathlessly as he lifted a box of her heaviest wood materials, placing them easily on the desk.

There was a low, electric rush in her limbs. She realized she wanted to smell his cologne again.


	4. You Are Not

"...This wouldn't be quite the brightest idea we've had..."

Eames comment fell flat in the still, lifeless air of Saito's subconscious. They were standing on a hard, flat surface, that looked to be made of red marble; the air was filled with clouds of smoke that hung, unmoving, in the gathered dark. Everything around them was perfumed, drenched in the strong, rotting stench of death. From somewhere, thousands of feet above, tiny lights glittered like distant eyes, like things forgotten. There were no projections.

Cobb had designed a dream for Saito's mind, thinking it would make the transaction easier. His layout had been a parlor in one of Saito's old estate homes, where he used to hold private business meetings and personal conferences. There was meant to be a full room situated in the Japanese man's head, now - a warm, crimson-and-chocolate colored room, dappled with leather furniture, a strong oak desk, a flashy, grated fireplace in the far wall. The room was _supposed_ to be dotted with bookshelves containing business manuals, classic novels, magazine clippings and the like; a few sweeping, graceful calligraphy paintings _should_ have hung from the dark red walls. A real, Arabian carpet, bought by Saito at a high-end auction, was _supposed_ to cover the floor. There was _supposed_ to be a box of cigars tucked away in a glossy, gold-lined desk, beside two heavy obsidian pens and a bottle of tasteful scotch.

But none of it held in Saito's subconscious. As soon as they were aware of the dream, they realized that the entire level had dissolved. Eames, the dreamer, could do nothing to remedy this, though Cobb has instructed him in the design - because _nothing_ stuck in Saito's mind. Anything they attempted to conjure - a set of stairs, a doorway, a platform - seemed to crack, twist, fade, or dissolve before their eyes. It was a miracle they were standing on anything as solid as that red marble.

Beneath them, however, was darkness. It looked stretched and infinite. Cobb could feel the tense, rhythmic beating of his heart as he peered down into it.

"So how do we press on?" Eames asked, when Cobb remained silent. "Shall I jump first, or you?"

"...Just, give me a minute..." Cobb was studying the sky above them. There was something particularly odd about it; there were too many stars, thousands and thousands of stars, bustling and overlapping and bumping into one another. They cast down rays of cold blue light on the dream-agents and the red marble, giving the area a ghostly, pale glow. From somewhere far away, was the high, screeching sound of metal rubbing against itself, so distant Cobb could hardly hear it. Eames glanced upwards and squinted unsurely.

"...Cobb," said the Brit hesitantly, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. "...Are they getting closer?"

Cobb found he'd been wondering the same thing. The lights seemed to be glowing, gently, brighter, larger. The screeching began to grow gradually louder - and then the color was washed out of Eames face.

".._.Goddammit, Cobb, build something _- !"

They were not small, distant lights held up in a midnight sky; they were rows upon rows of violently blue, glaring searchlights, hung from a series of jagged metal rafters suspended in midair. The gradual, soft glowing had been their distant descent, seemingly slow - but now they screamed, rushed ferociously through the air, fell like lightning towards the red marble.

Cobb had half a second to react. He found himself trying to think like Ariadne.

There was a long, groaning noise, like a steamship being overturned in the sea. Eames felt his body swing and fall flat against the red marble, as Cobb swung the entire platform a hundred and eighty degrees.

There was a horrible crushing, crashing noise; shards of glass and marble flew around the two men, slammed flat, upside-down, on the underside of the marble. For a second, they seemed safe.

Then there was another sound, like someone trying to cut cement with a chainsaw; the middle of the marble snapped, broke, and began to fold inwards on the two men. Eames grabbed Cobb by his jacket-collar and they half-dragged each other to one side of the inward-folding marble; Cobb managed todrag Eames, in the last second, out of the swiftly closing gap and onto the small shred left of the platform.

"Well," Eames breathed, the two of them clumped together on the marble. "Well and good, isn't it? Trapped on a floating piece of brick, with choice between being smashed to bits and taking the big swan dive. _And_ we aren't getting paid. Lovely."

"You sure look on the bright side, don't you Eames?" Cobb stated blandly, glancing down below them - now above them, he couldn't quite be sure - to some new phenomena forming in Saito's unstable mind.

It was a boat - at least, he thought it was a boat. There was something disjointed and wrong about it, like it had been made from pieces of other things. He distinctly saw the side of a taxi cab jutting from one end of it, and what could have been part of a construction crane - and at the helm (he tried not to say it, even to himself) looked like half a dead body.

Then he realized, with sickening clarity, that it was half a body - but not a dead one.

It was Saito. He looked older than Cobb remembered - but not nearly as old as he'd been in limbo. Still tall, still fairly unwrinkled, his hair had greyed considerably, and his eyes sagged in a creeping, inhumane way. His naked, upper torso was jutting from the side of ship's mast.

"Is that - " Eames looked uncertainly at the pale form on the ship, and seemed to shudder.

"...Come on," Cobb said, with more confidence than he felt. Bracing himself against the slowly dissolving red marble, he jumped down - up - made what was understandably a suicidal leap towards the ship.

"...Alright then," was Eames only reaction before he, too, jumped.

Then there was only a distinct, odd feeling, not exactly of falling - more of plunging, like the slow descent that comes after breaking the surface of the water. It was not enough to kick them - but it brought them down towards the ship at a rate they hadn't anticipated. Cobb hit first, his shoulder grinding down the side of the mast as he fell and cracked, hard, against the broken wooden deck. Eames' arm caught on a jutted bar as he came; it tore a swift, red gash through his flesh, and he collapsed on top of Cobb's legs with a halted cry.

"_Dammitall_, Cobb," Eames hissed, as Cobb pulled himself from underneath the Forger. With a generous effort, Cobb lifted the Brit to his feet, as Eames cradled his bloody arm into his chest.

"Alright?" Cobb asked. Eames, looking a little paler than usual but not much worse for wear, just nodded stiffly.

"Do your part of the job, yeah?" the Forger said, gesturing with head towards the twisted form attached to the mast. Cobb felt a horrible sense of dread at the idea of approaching the man, but did not show it; he nodded to Eames and turned around with a set, searching look.

"...Mr. Saito?" Cobb found addressing the torso as, possibly, one of the strangest things he'd ever done - and the Extractor had done some strange things.

Saito looked like something dragged from a horror film. Not a bloody, gruesome horror film involving wrenches and knives and masticated flesh - but a cold, gut-gripping, twisted horror, a reality that bent and drained things, grew unnatural specimens in dark corners. Saito was one such specimen; his flesh was pale, and his bones looked pressed too close to the surface. He had the aura of an excruciatingly sick man, though there was no blemish on his pale skin.

He did not look at Cobb when his name was spoken. His eyes were turned upwards, into his head, and the filmy whiteness of it mocked the Extractor.

"Mr. Saito. It's Mr. Cobb. You may remember me from a job we did for you," the Extractor pushed on, though there was no visible sign from the previous Tourist. "I need you to try and think, Mr. Saito. I need you to come back again. Come back again. Like last time."

There was a long moment where Eames watched the two men, where Cobb dare not speak again. Saito's eyes began to slowly, painfully move in their sockets. A slow line of red blood dripped from the left one.

"I need you to remember, Mr. Saito. Remember," Cobb pursued, hoping the torso's stirring was a good sign. "You have something to tell me, don't you? Something I didn't know before."

This last statement resonated in Saito's dismembered form.

"...I know you," Saito's voice was nothing more than a rasp; the man had been thoroughly, utterly broken.

"...from a half-remembered dream," Cobb said softly. Saito's filmy, whitened eyes looked at him lazily, and without any real recognition.

"And you remember me, of course, sweetheart," Eames grinned jokingly at Saito's damaged self. The Brit was, apparently, trying to get his mind off the throbbing pain in his arm.

"Eames..." Cobb warned, not wanting to further upset the current imbalance of the dream - but Saito's voice rolled in from behind him.

"Noise coming up. From below."

Then he began to babble, incoherently, in Japanese. Eames and Cobb exchanged looks - a silent recognition to remember anything, everything that Saito was likely to say.

"...I sit inside. Insist on being..."

"...on being what?" Cobb encouraged.

Saito's eyes began to roll forward. More slick red lines, dripping down his cheek from the lolling sockets.

"...emptied out and stared back. Old man. I dropped me... from the bottom, up."

"Cobb, he's not making an ounce of bloody sense," Eames commented, but his tone was low, as though he feared speaking too loud would disrupt Saito's mind further.

"Mr. Saito..." but a sudden apprehension had struck Cobb. He realized, abruptly, as Saito's eyes finally rolled forward and looked at him - he would do anything to never, _ever_, see the eyes of a man who'd been Eradicated.

"...An idea. Is... resilient," it came out of the Tourist's throat like a horrible whisper.

Saito suddenly would not stop staring, directly, into Cobb's eyes. Cobb could not do the same; there was something deeply and disturbingly wrong about Saito's eyes - they seemed colorless, cold, and hauntingly infinite. Looking into Saito's eyes was like looking into space - but without stars, without darkness, without light. A void of complete and utter _nothing_.

"...Highly contagious," Cobb seemed to say it without thinking, a guttural reaction to Saito's words. He felt it getting colder, stiller within the dream. A distinct, unnatural feeling of claustrophobia descended on him - but there were no walls, nothing to contain him. Just Saito's eyes, and their infinite, pressing, cage-like _nothing_.

"Impossible... to... _eradicate_."

Something in the way Saito pronounced this last word sent a cold, slimy feeling through Cobb. He stepped back suddenly, in horror and disgust, almost tripping into Eames.

"Where the truth is lost, like scattered bits of glass. You can't hold them; they stare back at you. They stare and say: _you are not_..." Saito didn't finish. His mouth seemed to freeze.

"...You are not what, Saito?" Cobb pressed, almost too distracted by his words to be overly-consumed with his unnatural gaze, with the cruel way his body jutted from the wood.

But Saito's eyes had rolled back into his had again, and his body had become still. And then, abruptly, there was Eames - yelling -

"_Bloody hell, Cobb _-"

The floating slab of red marble fell on the ship; Cobb had half a second of semi-conscious thought before the weight hit him, a flash of crushing, crushing pain -

- and he awoke in the hospital in Tokyo.

Eames was rolling his left arm, obviously adjusting to the sudden lack of pain. Yusuf was already putting the wires back into the silver case. Saito lay on the starched white bedsheets, looking exactly the same as he had in the photograph.

"How'd it go?" the Chemist asked, with honest intrigue. Cobb found himself unable to speak, trying to make sense of what he'd just experienced in Saito's mind. Eames, however, still had his voice.

"Mr. Saito is a _most_ cracked parrot."

l-l

Ariadne had been working on mazes for the past few hours. Without knowing her subject, or the fundamentals on how the levels were to be designed, she was forced to stick to basic architectural shapes. It bothered her not to have a focus or intent on her work; she was used to building around the general idea that would encompass the maze as opposed to its physical attributes. Without a subject, the maze seemed useless and incompetent.

She gave up soon into her fifth design. Unable to sit, draw, or sculpt any longer, she wandered into the office-quarter of the warehouse, where Arthur was working.

She had to resist the urge to laugh upon entering. Arthur had been doing research; in her mind, the idea of thorough, elaborate research involved messy room, papers flung everywhere, books lying on chairs, things posted half-hazardly on the wall - the general chaos of an architectural student's workspace a day before exams.

But Arthur was immaculate. Books were assembled in standing rows on a low shelf to his right - books like _The Interpretation of Dreams_, _Abnormal States of Brain and Mind, _and _Psychology of the Unconscious. _He had great stacks of research papers and notes, of course; but they were neatly stacked and standing at the desk, filed in manila folders or bound in notebooks. There were highlighters and pens assembled in a collected row on the desk-top, beside a half-used stack of sticky notes and a box of thumbtacks. He'd used the tacks to post newspaper and magazine articles along the walls, symmetrically aligned between photographs of Fischer, Browning, and Saito - along with about twenty mugshots of various people Ariadne had never seen before. Colored pieces of string had been tacked to the wall, creating connections between various pictures and article posted to the cement wall, so it resembled a strange, colorful web.

She was also struck by one, singular contradiction in the room, which made the laugh die in her throat. Against the far wall, on a low table, lay three or four handguns. Six loaded magazines were assembled in a row beside them, along with a holster and a cleaning kit.

"How're the designs coming?" Arthur's question snapped her back to reality. _To reality_. He had placed a laptop down in front of him, and he was looking at her. She was dimly aware of the slight hint of red from somewhere in the deep brown of his eyes.

"I... I can't really work on the models without a basis - or a subject," Ariadne admitted. "I feel like I'm just creating nonsense."

"The sketches you had in Paris were good," Arthur said honestly. "You've been able to create some complicated layouts without subjects."

"There's more to dreaming than that, though," Ariadne mused. Arthur paused in his reading and regarded her, intently, and she felt it almost as deeply as within a dream. "I'm still new at this. I don't want to screw it up."

"You made Inception a success. Which makes you the best Architect I've ever known," Arthur gave her that sly, slight smile. Ariadne smiled back, and felt a heat in her cheeks.

"Thanks..." the Architect found she didn't know quite what else to say. It was late, and the London sky was dark and dotted with stars. The hum of airplanes could still be heard from high above the warehouse building, like the great, constant beat of metal wings.

As she stood there, she became more and more aware of the fact that Arthur was not moving. He had not returned to his research; had not opened a book or regarded any of his notes. He was looking at her, with that barely perceptible smile still hanging in the corner of his mouth. He seemed content, just looking at her.

"...Well, I'm pretty tired," Ariadne found herself saying, although she really wasn't. "I... I'm going to head back to the hotel. Let you get back to work."

"Yeah, we should probably get out of here. I just have a few things to finish up."

Ariadne made a move towards the door, but something about what he'd said - _We should probably get out of here. _It ignited a significant feeling in her chest, drew up some pleasant feeling. She was aware that he had said it before.

"...Arthur?"

Arthur's eyes were still on her, and she remembered quietly where he'd said it before. On a couch. In a hotel. In a dream. After...

"In... Inception. When we were at the hotel..."

She trailed off. She felt a deep, soaring feeling inside her that made her wonder if she _was _dreaming. But it felt too real - and she was too acutely aware of Arthur, sitting composed on the folding chair before his wall of research. He was leaning on his knees, his pressed, dark blue shirt rolled up above his elbows, looking at her with those penetrating, red-brown eyes. The situation was breathtakingly _real_. And the feeling in the room, after she had spoken - the _feeling _of Arthur contemplating her meaning, remembering the same moment she was remembering... the moment that she hadn't mentioned, but seemed to be immediately there, in front of them...

"...Goodnight, Ariadne," he said gently.

He was still smiling, more in his eyes than in his mouth.


	5. A Half Formed Idea

"You didn't learn _anything_?"

Arthur's voice was tense, angry over the phone. Cobb knew that tone from down in the dream, during Inception; that righteous fury that overtook the Point Man when something went awry, or when the Extractor put his team at risk. Arthur was steady, calm, unfailing, reliable; but there were moments when that resolve faded - when his collected exterior broke and a very real, raw rage could possess him. Cobb knew his failure to glean anything from Saito's subconscious would set a fuse to that rage; the Point Man had, undoubtedly, been pouring over dead end after dead end in his research.

"I was able to get Saito talking, and that's a good sign," Cobb said over the public phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was across the street from Saito's hospital, finding it too risky to use the residential telephone in making contact with Arthur. They were still unaware of who had targeted Saito and vulnerable because of it. "Eames and I are going back under in a couple minutes. I'll call you tonight with any new information."

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Your job. You find a lead and follow it -"

"I don't _have _any leads, Cobb, I was counting on _you_ for a direction -"

"Well I don't have one. So work with what you have, alright?"

Arthur rubbed his face and hung up before Cobb could. _Work with what you have_. The Point Man felt a singular rush of irritation at the Extractor's orders. He trusted Cobb - even after what happened with Mal, even after he began to fall apart (_he was still falling apart_) - he trusted him. But sometimes it was impossible to follow his orders.

He tried, diligently, to apply himself. He'd been working on a lead involving a dream-agent named Marcus - a forty-something Russian man with a bad underground reputation and two missing teeth. He'd been involved in self-serving Extraction work for the past decade - preying on unsuspecting businessmen and celebrities, discovering passcodes to bank vaults and hidden accounts. He had made a substantial, secret living from draining these funds. It was a poor lead, but it was the best Arthur had - Marcus was regularly visiting Japan in the few months before Saito's Eradication.

He poured through collected articles he'd printed on the Russian. Marcus was investing in the technological industry, a corporation known as FutureStock, that had no apparent ties to Saito. Arthur delved into transactions made by the Russian; ten thousand to a secret account in the Netherlands; fourteen thousand to a mistress in Cairo; a half million to his personal savings. There was one investment he made in FutureStock - an investment he was supposed to green-light the coming weekend. Arthur did a quick background, looked up the man's current whereabouts, his plans, his rumors -

- and the lead turned up empty. Marcus had died a month ago in Singapore, after a run-in with local police.

"Goddamit -"

In one swift motion, he stood, flung the folder wildly to the floor, and kicked the chair across the room. It banged, clattered against the far wall; Arthur ran his fingers through his hair, cursed, kicked again at his desk, tearing a splintered gash in the side.

The Point Man placed both fists on the desk. He stared down at the stack of notes - useless piles of research on empty leads - and felt his body rush with anger, with disappointment, with frustration.

"...Arthur?"

Her voice wavered at seeing him bent over in vexation. She so rarely, rarely saw him as anything other than absolutely composed.

He righted himself, fluidly, easily, sliding his hands into his pockets and standing tall. She knew it was a facade; the straight posture, the masked, unreadable expression - it couldn't veil the disconcerted look that pervaded his eyes.

"...Are you alright?" Ariadne asked, breathlessly. Arthur's eyebrows raised, just slightly.

"Fine. Cobb made contact - they haven't found anything yet."

He reached behind him and began to reassemble the disordered paper on his desk. Ariadne walked further into the room, a nervous smile tugging at her lip.

"Arthur - you need to get out of this office," she said, giving him an insistent look. "It's getting to you."

Arthur knew she was right. He knew, from years of experience, how the deep, consuming hours of brain-wracking research could drive you past the point of impatience; how that forced study could weigh in closer than the very walls, trap you, overwhelm you. But the job was important, this time - their sanity, their minds were at stake, from some phantom foe that preyed on the subconscious. There was a lurking danger beneath this job that he couldn't make himself bring to Ariadne's attention.

"It's just frustrating," he said, still steadily. "I've been working at this for days, and still..."

He trailed off, with just the most subtle shake of his head. Ariadne, seeing the scattered papers on the floor, kneeled down to pick them up. Arthur felt a surge of responsibility, of guilt as he watched her get down to her knees; she seemed terribly small, fragile. Vulnerable. He was aware of how dark her hair seemed against her skin, against the pale teal color of her scarf.

"You should try something else,' Ariadne suggested, stacking the papers in front of her. She was aware of Arthur getting down to his own knees, gathering up the remains of the folder. She caught the faintest breathe of his cologne.

"Something else?" he asked, as she handed him the papers and they stood, placing them neatly on the desk.

"Yeah. Like, whenever I get frustrated with a design, or feel like I can't get it right - I leave it for a little while. I go do something else."

"...Such as?" Arthur's eyebrow was raised again. A small, entertained smile broke across the Architect's features.

"Well... maybe we could do the tourist thing. We are in London," she reminded him.

He seemed aware of her intent, almost before she said it. She was half afraid, half thrilled as he looked at her - an angular man assembled like some perfect, logical puzzle. Not emotionless, but not emotional; capable of unbiased action, capable of outburst, and never at risk of forgetting himself. She was struck by an idea of how utterly sophisticated and intelligent he was - and how dangerous. A paradox.

"You want to go sightseeing?" he said, after what seemed an eternity. She prayed he didn't find the idea as silly and school-girlish as it sounded in her head.

"Come on. I've never been to London."

Arthur smiled. She realized she was beginning to recognize it, easily, more and more; a smile written in his eyes.

l-l

Cobb had not returned to Saito's hospital room after hanging up on Arthur's call. A 9mm bullet to his right thigh had cut that intention short.

Thank God for Eames - thank God for a dirty-handed Forger with debt in every country and a price on _his_ head, too - who managed some cover fire with Cobb's handgun. Thank God for Yusuf, for _not _being present - the inexperienced Chemist that never went into the field, because Chemists that entered dreams often never came out. Thank God for the terrified civilian who willingly gave up their Japanese-model car when Eames demanded it, waving the gun around dramatically.

"What the _hell_ is going on, Cobb?"

Eames was too rushed with adrenaline to realize his question fell on deaf ears. They could not yet tell if they were being followed by the unnamed marksman; gunfire had rained down on them constantly as they fled from the hospital scene, but faded into silence after acquiring the stolen car. There was no guarantee their pursuers had transportation, and no guarantee they did not. Eames took every two seconds to look over his shoulder, glance in his mirrors, and finger the pistol uncertainly.

Cobb was letting out excruciating gasps of pain. His jacket was half-ripped and tied tightly around his bloody thigh, dripping warm and wet on the car seat. His leg throbbed, burned, screamed at the hauntingly clean hole the bullet had torn through his body, the small piece of lead still trapped somewhere in the mangled flesh of his thigh.

"Jesus - Christ -" Cobb couldn't listen to Eames. The Extractor tried his best to focus - to ignore the searing agony erupting in his veins - to concentrate on the situation at hand.

"Yusuf - we left Yusuf -" was the first thing to pop into Cobb's mind. Eames stuttered, desperate to talk to the Extractor.

"Yusuf's been at the airport since six - our flight was at nine - he knows to disappear if we don't show," Eames' tone of voice was not very reassuring. Cobb closed his eyes and leaned sickeningly against the window. He was fighting off a new wave of nausea, sweltering with pain. He leaned back in his seat and focused, _focused._

"We need - to get this bullet out. Trace it. Find out - who -"

And then there was the loud, ear-hammering sound of automatic gunfire; Eames swerved across two lanes of traffic, his cursing drowned by the sound of screeching wheels and blaring car horns. Two large, black vans sped down the street in pursuit of their miniscule car; one man hung part way from the passenger window, an automatic rifle raised to his shoulder. He fired, and light blared from the end of the gun, scattered death against the bumper and doors of the car.

Eames swerved again, this time down a large side-road that emptied into a highway. The large-volume truck gave a long, poignant honk, muffled by the continued sound of gunshots. The vans turned, skidded, swam through lines of traffic to reach the small car, the Forger flattening the gas pedal in an attempt to escape their assault.

Cobb's head lolled backwards. The sound of gunfire dulled as his mind absorbed itself in the sweeping agony of his leg. He was aware, distantly, of the shifting movements of the car.

A good shot found the back window of the car. It shattered through the glass, scattering shards in the back seat, and exited through the front window. Eames flinched, threw his head down, swerved -

"_Bloody hell_ -"

And Cobb lost consciousness.

l-l

Trafalgar Square was one of the most visited tourist sights of London. It was located squarely in the heart of the city, a flat, open location bordered by bustling London streets and English restaurants. Ariadne was first struck, not by the looming, neck-craning height of Nelson's Column, nor the gorgeous, blossoming sets of fountains, nor even the mass crowds of international origin - but by the _pidgeons_.

There were hundreds of them. Hundreds of cooing, flapping, flouncing, bobbing pidgeons, moving in groups, floating upwards in waves when they were disturbed, and settling back down in unison like gray-white speckled snow. Despite all of Arthur's assurances that the flock was substantially smaller than usual (the government had introduced a ban on bird-feeding to discourage their presence) she was entranced by them.

She begged him to purchase sunflower seeds from a nearby storefront. He smiled, rolled his eyes, gave her a smug look - _it's illegal to feed the birds, Ariadne_.

And she nudged him gently with her shoulder, feeling an urge to remain in close proximity with him, beset all around by tourists - _like we never do anything illegal, Arthur._

"Alright. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Then Ariadne was only aware of his hand, which had slipped gently to rest on the small of her back. He guided her away from the center of the square in this fashion, applying some pressure to her back; she was struck by how wide and strong his hand felt against her red jacket, against her body.

But before she could contemplate it further, his hand had slipped away, sliding back into his pocket. She was left with a strange, resonating feeling, a half-formed idea. Her skin prickled, glowed where he'd touched her.

l-l

Yusuf dialed the warehouse number again in an attempt to reach Arthur. It rang repeatedly. Ten times. Twenty times. There was no answering machine, and eventually the Chemist hung up.

Tokyo Narita International was always bustling with people. Yusuf was able to blend easily into the gathered crowds of tourists waiting at terminal 14C, loading onto the large, transcontinental aircraft. The flight was: _Tokyo to London; Layover in Mumbai, India. Departure: 9:14 pm._ Yusuf hesitantly checked his watch; it was 8:58.

He knew he shouldn't have even waited _this_ long - that he should've changed his flight at 8:30, when Eames and Cobb hadn't arrived. But the Chemist was unused to fending for himself under possibly dangerous conditions, and heavily affected by Cobb's account of Saito subconscious. He waited another minute, his heart beating quickly, his eyes glancing towards every idle-looking man in a suit that seemed stationed around him.

Time ticked by. 8:59.

"Come on you two," Yusuf muttered, sitting uncomfortably in the terminal chair, squished between a Japanese business woman and a sleepy German. The German smelled, unpleasantly, of cheep spray-on deodorant.

He willed time to stop. It didn't. 9:00.

The majority of passengers were boarding, and his seating zone was called. He felt cold perspiration trickle down the back of his neck. Yusuf knew he was not the bravest man; it was why he'd only gone one layer deep in Inception. He rarely went into the field. He preferred his study, his mixtures, his elaborate and secret compounds that he developed under microscopes and in test tubes. Dreams were gorgeous, unreal, exciting; but his lab, his home in Mombasa, was safe.

9:01.

He stood, shakily, clutching his boarding pass, the single black duffle black slung over his shoulder. He had the sudden, swift realization that he was alone. Alone in the field with a possible Eradicator after him.

9:02.

"Excuse me? Yes. English?" the Asian woman nodded vigorously at Yusuf, who stood, not very steadily, before the service desk. "Yes, I - I'd like to see if I could exchange my ticket, please. I've had a change in plans."

l-l

"Go away! I'm out!"

Ariadne slipped her scarf off and waved it discouragingly at the flock, but they only fluttered about in agitation and kept up the pursuit. She had run out of birdseen, but the pidgeons were in strict denial of the fact. Arthur, in a brilliant stroke that almost made Ariadne stumble in surprise, let out a real, deep, honest laugh.

Ariadne had heard him laugh only once - only during her first time dreaming with him, when they had stood together on the Penrose Steps. She had mentioned the polite nature of her subconscious, and he laughed knowingly - _nobody likes to feel someone else messing around in their mind._

But he was laughing easily now, as he watched her swat away the pidgeons.

"You won't be laughing when they eat me alive!" Ariadne rushed to Arthur's side as the pidgeons followed. He caught her, easily, still laughing; with a fluid motion he placed her behind him and swatted outwards toward the persistent flock. She clutched to his coat as he fought off her avian attackers - and she found she was laughing too.

The birds scattered against Arthur's shooing, having no reason to believe that _he _had anything of value on him to peck; besides, there was a little girl on the other side of the square, scattering bread crumbs. As they dispersed, Ariadne loosed her hold on Arthur's coat. It was a Cleavon Osgoode overcoat, slick and gray and simple, a perfect compliment to his form. She was wearing a somewhat thicker peacoat, with her scarf draped lazily around her neck.

"I did warn you, Ariadne," Arthur's voice was still tainted with humor.

She felt his hand slide onto her arm as he turned, as she let go of his coat. He didn't leave it there; his fingers slid down the length of her forearm, the cold, bare skin of their hands touching briefly before they separated again.

She felt rushed. She had become painfully aware of each and every moment they were in physical contact - his hand on her back, on her arm, the back of his fingers brushing hers. Such brief, brief moments that shouldn't _seem _to matter, but did matter, because -

_A brief moment, and his lips like fire_.

How half a second could seem so important. Could slow down, as though they walked in a dream.

Barely a touch. Barely a kiss.

"What would you like to do next?" Arthur's words did their best to bring her back to reality. Ariadne felt a willingness arise in her to achieve more.

_More _than barely. _More _than brief.

Playfully, casually, she grabbed his hand.

"I say we behave really English, and find some afternoon tea," she tried to remain coy, aloof, keeping her distance form the Point Man - even though she could feel his fingers around hers, large and calloused, like a reminder that he wasn't _just _a desk-man - but a field-man, a soldier.

She intended to pull away _her _hand, as soon as she followed. To make _him_ feel that rush that came with brief touches and kisses.

But his hand was larger than hers, and it closed around her grip instinctively. She could feel heat glowing from his skin. She wondered if it was her presence that was making him so warm, or if he naturally ran hot.

She risked a glance in his direction. His face was unreadable, but she could feel it - see it, in those dark, endless, expressive eyes.

He wanted _more _than barely. _More_ than brief.

A dangerous, beautiful, half-formed idea.

l-l

Later that night, after the sun had vanished in the west, they walked the runways of the airport. They sky was clear, dark, and crisp, the air all heavy with shadow. It would be a cold, clear night, Ariadne felt.

She could feel Arthur, strolling beside her in the gathered dark. The airport was quiet and still; planes were stationed at terminal gates, but the runways were cleared. Even the guiding flares that lined each lane had been extinguished, and the city lights seemed dim and far away.

"You aren't planning on finishing school, are you?" Arthur's question seemed strangely stiff, but melodic, though she knew his tone was as even as ever.

"...I don't know. But I don't think I can ever really adjust to that life again."

"It might have been better for you. You wouldn't be at risk."

He was opening the conversation to the job. He was bringing her back to the vague, haunting idea: that there was someone out there, possibly, possibly capable of destroying them - not just physically, but _mentally, spiritually._

"Arthur, do you... really think there's an Eradicator?"

"Yes. Why? Are you afraid?"

She felt disconcerted. She had a distinct feeling like something wasn't right. She hadn't expected Arthur to say yes, but she couldn't remember why.

"...Maybe. I'm just... worried."

"Worried?" Arthur's voice seemed to possess a general, obvious note of concern, and it made Ariadne feel warm. She turned her head to look at him, but found it was too dark to clearly see his face. She could only discern the line of his jaw - straight and strong.

"Yeah. I don't... I don't want any of us to end up like Saito. Cobb has children waiting for him. And you... well, I guess you wouldn't be afraid, though."

"What makes you say that?"

She was aware she'd wrapped her arm around his as they walked. It was quiet. No roar of airplanes overhead. No distant thunder of London streets. Just two dream-agents, walking the smooth paved runway lanes.

"Well... you never _seem_ afraid. But... I guess... with everything you've done - all that government hacking in the military. Training people. I guess you don't have much to be afraid of anymore."

She believed she felt him smile, in the dark. She walked half an inch closer to him, trying to get the subtle scent of his cologne; but the cool, midnight wind must have carried it away from her.


	6. The First Crack

_Where the truth is lost, like scattered bits of glass;_

_You can't hold them. They stare back at you._

_They stare, and say,_

_You are not..._

_Not what?_

Cobb eyelids were heavy, heavy, heavy as lead. His face felt numb and weighty. He could hardly feel himself breathe - hardly feel anything beneath the slow, persistent rising of his chest. His mind moved filmy and slow, and he realized after a long, long effort, that he had been drugged.

The Extractor forced himself to stir upon this realization. He was definitely over-medicated - it was not any sort of pain medication to subdue his bullet-torn leg, but something heavier, something to subdue him entirely. It was not, he was very aware, any doing of Eames. He tried to clench, unclench his fingers - but his hands seemed miles, miles away, in some distant place he couldn't reach. He tensed his body up, tried to send strength to his muscles.

"He's awake," the statement was blunt, blurred with white noise that resonated in Cobb's head.

He became gradually aware of his position; lying on something hard and flat - a table, or maybe an empty bed-frame - and by the subtle ache in his back, he'd been lying there a while. His half-open eyes were adjusted to a semi-dark room, flooded only with a cold green light that seemed to come from somewhere behind him. There were two forms to his left - thick, dark forms, one standing against the gray-green wall, the other seated near the Extractor's side. He couldn't focus enough yet to get a clear view of their features.

"The famous Dom Cobb," said the man sitting closest to the Extractor. He was tossing something small, back and forth, between his hands. Cobb was dimly aware that he was very, very tall; his complexion was rich and dark, and his dress suggested someone of Indian origin. The man beside him was shorter, and fatter, and the glint from his face suggested he was wearing glasses.

"He couldn't have done Inception. Look at him," the fat man snorted disdainfully.

Cobb's heart suddenly seemed to burst into action in his chest. _He could be in a dream. He could be in reality. It didn't matter - they had him. One of them was the Eradicator._

His mind flashed, involuntarily, to James and Philippa. A memory of James, with dirt and grass stains coating his hands and shirt, smiling a white smile; Philippa beside him, holding a paper cup with a captured ladybug inside, her laughing face more golden than the sun.

"...Where is Eames?" it took a heroic, monumental effort to force the words from his throat, to say them over the huge, beautiful memory that was consuming him. His tongue felt heavy and swollen.

"You should be much more concerned with your own state of things," there was no mistaking it now. The man's accent was thick, thick Indian. "We're going to break you, Mister Cobb. We're going to break you and you're team. That's our job. I believe you can respect that."

_A memory when Mal was still alive, and whole. She and Philippa poured chocolate syrup on their waffles._

"...You won't do it..." and if Cobb could have smiled, he would of. The best damn Forger between North and South; an unfailing Point Man; an unrivaled Architect; a studied Chemist. They wouldn't break them. _Not all of them._

But a gentle, mocking smile pulled up the corner of the Indian's mouth. Cobb ignored it. _Focus._

_James' first birthday. He tried to eat the candles off the cake._

"As strange as it may seem, Mr. Cobb, you don't know everything about Extraction. And you know nothing about Eradication."

Cobb's heart stopped. He tried to open his eyes wider, to convince himself that what he saw wasn't real.

_But how could he be sure_?

Because in the dark-skinned, Indian man's hand was Mal's precious spinning top.

"Mr. Cobb, you're not the one in control anymore."

l-l

Cobb, Eames, and Yusuf were four hours late for rendezvous.

After they had been late for one hour, Arthur packed up the warehouse; his notes and research went into the lining of the silver briefcase. The furniture and lawn chairs, swamped with DNA, he packed into a small moving van, and paid a local taxi man three thousand pounds to drive it into the English countryside and abandon it.

Two hours after they'd missed rendezvous, the Architect and the Point Man were on _RailEurope_, taking the train from London to Brussels. Arthur was particular about their seating on the train; Ariadne sat in the back corner row, and nobody sat beside her (he made their luggage occupy the vacant seat). He stood in front of her like a human wall, a sentinel, physically blocking access to the Architect. One hand was wrapped around the steadying rail, while he kept the other in his pocket, poised just under the Beretta still strapped to his chest.

Ariadne felt herself staring at his back, the train swaying, lurching. She was deeply aware of why he'd been so particular about the seating. From this vantage, no one could get to her, not even from the windows; his tall, well-dressed form, standing before her seat - it hid her from everyone. He had become her human shield.

He'd told her not to speak on the train. That they would have to wait and see if they were followed. That she had to stay close to him. That she had to do as exactly as he said. It was the soldier in him, she knew. That direct, give-and-follow orders mentality that awakened in him whenever he sensed danger was near. Yet, there was something distinct, different about it now - something that was starting to revolve around her, a silent sense of responsibility, an urge to protect her.

He had his arm wrapped around her as they entered the train station, even though this was impractical and made it difficult to carry their bags. She hadn't stopped him, dimly aware of some looming danger they were in, that something had happened to the rest of the team. She pressed into his side as they walked, and he just tightened his grip on her waist, he dark eyes forever studying the station, the suspicious waves of people, the rush of silver trains. Like his arm, wrapped around her waist, was the sole thing keeping her safe from innumerable invisible enemies.

She wished he would shove the bags to the floor and sit next to her on the train. She wished he would wrap his arm back around her, and she could melt into his steady, collected, fearless form.

But Arthur stayed where he was. Between her and the rest of the train, between her and the rumor of danger.

Brussels had been the alternative meeting point. Specifically, a small pub in the north end of Brussels, frequented mostly by local families, off the beat from the tourist track. If the rest of the team did not show up to the pub _Mort Subite_ by the end of the night, Arthur and Ariadne were on their own.

They took a cab to the pub; Ariadne sent Arthur a look, begging the chance to talk, but Arthur shook his head - _not even around the cab driver._ When they arrived and Arthur entered the heavy glass door, the customers barely cast him an acknowledged glance before returning to their drinks. If was dim, crowded, and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. Ariadne was reminded of her friends cramped studies in Paris.

Arthur nodded once to the bartender, who seemed trained to recognize the Point Man. In a subtle motion he slid a key across the counter to Arthur, who took it easily, almost imperceptibly. Wrapping his arm back around Ariadne, he guided her past the cluttered stools and tables and bar patrons, unlocking the back-room door and slipping inside.

They were in the bar stock-room. Crates of packaged bar peanuts and pretzels were stacked against the walls, thick bottles of wine, scotch, whiskey all standing on rickety iron shelves. Everything smelled like beer and salt, and then, suddenly -

"Goddamn..."

It was Yusuf, striding in relief towards the pair, looking like he hadn't slept in days. It was sixteen hours since his last contact with Cobb or Eames, and every waking minute was a darting glance over his shoulder, a pressing fear that any moment would find a bullet in his temple, or a bag over his head. He'd taken a complicated web of flights to Brussels, had arrived at the bar a half hour before Arthur and Ariadne; in that short amount of time, to curb his paranoia, he'd emptied a whole bottle of wine. Ariadne could smell it on his breathe when he hugged her, gratefully.

"What the hell happened?" Arthur was not in a much relieved state, and did not seem pleased by Yusuf's intoxicated state.

"I don't know, I really don't," Yusuf said, honestly, his speech slightly slurred. "They never came to the terminal. Cobb was supposed to go under again, and Eames to monitor - they sent me to get boarding passes -"

"Dammit," it came out as an angry hiss in Arthur's teeth. Ariadne could see plans forming behind his eyes, and he raised his face to hers. Both the Chemist and the Architect were looking towards the Point Man for direction - some semblance of stability, now that the job was falling apart.

"Cobb knows one place to get in contact with me," Arthur finally said. "Yusuf, you take Araidne back to Paris. They won't know about her yet, and if they didn't follow you here, then they can't know about you either. You stay in Paris, hold up at Professor Miles place - but don't tell him about Cobb."

"Wait - and what do you want me to do?" Ariadne sought his eyes, but he avoided looking at her. he was checking his watch, formulating a dark and dangerous plan to get Cobb back.

"You go back to school, resume like nothing happened. You stay close to Yusuf and Professor Miles. It won't be hard. You'll adjust."

"But I don't want to go back," Ariadne persisted. she felt stung, somewhere deep inside, at his ability to brush her away so effortlessly. "I told you that - that I couldn't re-adjust. I can't adjust to normalcy anymore. I want to help you find Cobb and Eames. I'm... I feel responsible for them, too."

A bothered, slight look passed over Arthur's face. She was aware that he didn't like his orders being ignored, especially when they involved keeping her alive.

"It's safer in Paris. And you never told me you had a problem with normalcy before," there was something hidden behind his voice that she couldn't pinpoint.

"Yes I have - I did last night. Please. "

"...When, last night?" the perfect, expressionless form of Arthur's face was broken only partially by the knitted, gently confused placing of his eyebrows.

"...Late," Ariadne felt herself blush, instinctively, as though she knew there was something inappropriate - something odd - about recalling that particular part of their evening. "You know, when we were walking the runways. After dinner."

A silence enveloped Arthur. It was not his normal silence - that calm, warm, collective, observant silence that Ariadne had grown to know, to bathe comfortably in whenever he was near. No; this silence was cold, and distant, like the silence that hid in frigid, labyrinth caves and corners. It made her shiver.

"...Ariadne, you went back to the hotel after dinner. I walked you to your room."

Yusuf looked between the two uncertainly. The disconnect became apparent; something wrong - something misunderstood - Ariadne began to speak -

"...But I..."

And suddenly, it all hit Ariadne -

- the dark, dark night, and _no planes flying from the runways_ _at the busiest airport in England -_

- the cold, cold wind, and _no lights on the horizon though London surrounded them -_

- and the strong line of Arthur's jaw, but it was dark and _she couldn't see his face, couldn't smell his cologne, and why had he said "yes" so quickly to her question about the Eradicator? Hadn't he been convinced that there wasn't such a thing? That Eradication was impossible?_

All the warmth drained out of her.

She began to shake.

"Yusuf - test her. Now," Arthur's eyes were fixated on the Architect, but the expression in them was terrifying. Ariadne, already struck, immobile with the realization that - _but it was real, wasn't it?_ - couldn't meet the Point Man's gaze. There was anger there - _but not anger at her_ - and suspicion, and worry, and something else. Something else, that made him step towards her, that made his hand reach out and taker shoulder, to feel her shake - something like fear - _but he was never afraid, was he?_

"What? You mean, test her for -" Yusuf had not caught the meaning yet.

"_Yes_, dammit, now shut up and do it!" that deep, resonating voice, ferocious, shaking with - fear? _It co__uldn't be fear._

Yusuf, disgruntled at being addressed this way, sped to the wall and opened his own bags beneath incoherent mutters. Ariadne's throat was suddenly dry as cotton, and her body was paralyzed, and - _had she lost track of reality? She couldn't..._

"Here. Sit here."

Arthur's hand guided her to a discarded bar stool beside a crate of beer. She obeyed him, numbly, hardly feeling his hand rolling up her sleeve, his attempts at comforting her, _it's alright, breathe, just breathe -_

"Maybe I just dreamed it," she breathed outward.

But that simple statement - which a year ago would have made everything alright, because _it was just a dream and dreams aren't real, right? _That statement now made whatever was left of her strength crumble - _because even if it was just a dream, what if wasn't her dream?_

"Ariadne," Arthur's voice was steady, like his hand on her arm. He was knelt down beside her as Yusuf approached, a clean syringe in one hand, a clear, filled bottle in the other. The Architect looked longingly at the Point Man, saying things with her eyes, things there weren't words for; wanting him to steady her; wanting the warmth of his protection and assurance.

Yusuf slid the needle into Ariadne's forearm. Ariadne was numb with shock, with the horrible idea that _was someone in her head?_ Yusuf drew a long stream of red blood from her vein, pressing a cotton clothe to her arm as he slid the needle out. Arthur placed his own hand on the swab, pressing it down against her fragile arm. She felt her other hand move magnetically across her body; it gripped the tailored sleeve of Arthur's suit, fingers wrapped around his arm as though to anchor her.

The Chemist took the needle from the syringe and carefully, carefully dropped a small fraction of Ariadne's blood into the clear bottle. The blood swirled in the glass, faded; and the liquid turned a soft, almost translucent pink.

"...She's positive," Yusuf seemed to say it as quietly, as apologetically as possible. Ariadne's hand tightened, vice-like, on Arthur's arm.

"What does that mean?" she breathed, as Yusuf turned and began to pack the kit back together, glancing around the room worriedly, jumping when a rowdy group in the pub behind them erupted into laughter.

"It means you've been sedated in the last 24 hours," Arthur answered, and she was aware of his hand, resting on her knee. He opened his mouth again, as though to elaborate, but the words wouldn't come out. But she understood.

_It means someone's been in your head._

"Arthur, we have to go. He could have followed you," Yusuf's tone was almost begging. He had opened the stock-room door a crack, and was peering into the pub, searching for suspicious figures.

"I know," though his eyes were still on Ariadne. "Find us a cab. Pay the bartender for his service. We'll come out a few minutes after you."

Yusuf hesitated for a moment, obviously not wishing to leave the presence of his teammates - and especially not wanting to leave Ariadne, as upset as she was, petrified on the bar stool. But the Point Man's words were final, and the Chemist slipped out into the pub.

If Ariadne wasn't trembling so much, she would be motionless with fear. A horrible, vulnerable feeling had consumed her, unlike anything she'd ever known; she felt used, violated in a terrible, irreparable, intimate way. Someone had sedated her; someone had infiltrated her mind; someone had entered her dream, imitated Arthur, struck her at her most vulnerable core. _And she hadn't been able to tell - didn't know it was a dream, couldn't tell it from reality._

"Ariadne, stand up. It's ok."

He pulled her gently to her feet. She placed one hand on his chest; he felt firm, stable, a living statue dressed in a tailored suit and tie. She paused, froze; stared at her hand, resting against his chest. _Is he real_?

"Your totem. Your totem, Ariadne" was what he said, his fingers wrapping gently around her wrist.

Her other hand drifted to her pocket, independent from the rest of her. Slid inside, grasped weakly at the little golden chess piece.

Turned it over in her fingers. The small, easy-to-miss, grainy patch.

Her knees weakened, threatened to give out under her. Both hands found his chest, now, and she sank into him - was she crying? - her face felt wet, as she pressed it against his immaculate suit.

"I'm sorry, Ariadne. I'm sorry. I should have..."

What should he have done? Guarded her while she slept? Shared the hotel room? _A half-formed idea._

She tried to tell him things without saying them. _It's not your fault. Oh God. Don't leave. P__rotect me. Tell me it's real._

And he was there, stable, his expressive eyes filled with _what couldn't be fear_, talking back. _Never again. This is real._

Tentatively, shakily, Ariadne wrapped her arms around Arthur's neck. She buried her face into him and smelled his cologne, as though to keep reminding herself - _It's real. It's real. It's real._

_They stare, and say,_

_You are not..._

_Not what?_


	7. Up or Under

He was aware of it, simultaneously, but also unaware. Like the world moving too slowly.

The feelings came first, as always. The visual was not as important - not necessary in the dream state. It was the feeling, the general existence that surrounded you.

He felt it first in his feet. Hard, uneven, wood and iron. He walked a step forward, and recognized the sensation of walking on rails, of walking on a train track.

Next was the breeze, holding in the distant scent of salt and sea. With the smell came the first hint of scenery; there was the empty, barren field, and his feet on the winding, endless train tracks, a train that went _nowhere and everywhere but you can't be sure and it doesn't matter._

"I'm here, Dom."

_Mal._

She was not standing on the tracks with him. The distant, high whistle of the train sounded far away, a forgotten warning. Cobb felt himself grow cold, his feet frozen to the iron train tracks, his gaze resting longingly, sorrowfully, at the image of his dead wife. She stood elegantly, ever so elegantly, in the dry, still air of this windswept part of his subconscious; her frame was small and tender against the distant background of the cities they'd built, toppled, altered, created together. Her eyes were infinite. Her lips, pressed gently together, reminded him of how desperately - for years - he'd wished to kiss her.

"I'm dreaming again, Mal. You're not real."

He said it as if to convince himself. He said it regretfully, almost shamefully.

Mal just looked at him, with a smile that begged his attention.

"Dom. It's time to stop pretending."

He could feel a low, subtle vibration starting beneath his feet - the rumbling of the approaching train. It echoed through him like the shiver of an unnamed fear. The train would hit him, he knew; and he would awaken, he knew; and she would be gone, gone again, forever...

_You don't have to wake up. You can stay here with her._

But he would wake up. And she would be gone.

"I know. And I have to go, Mal. I have to go back."

But the smile stayed, and he was caught by the strangeness of it, the way she seemed content with his leaving her. _She should be trying to make him stay. Convince him this was reality._

"I know, Dom. And I will finally see you up above. I've waited so long."

Her smile widened, and he was struck by the horrible, wonderful, glittering tears that stained her eyes. His heart reeled, ached, half in utter adoration of the gorgeous woman before him, half in terrible grief that _I won't see you up above, Mal, remember? I won't see you._

"What... no, no," Cobb had to restrain himself from reaching out to embrace her, shaking his head. "I'll wake up. But you won't be there, remember? You left us."

The high call of the train whistle, louder now, closer. The glint of silver on the horizon. The distant, thundering drum of rotating wheels, of steam and fire and metal.

"They have lied to you about everything, Dom," there were still tears on her beautiful face. One of them dripped delicately down her cheek, tangled itself in her rich brown hair. "Because - because he was trying to destroy you. He was trying to destroy your subconscious."

Cobb felt a sick, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. A blurred, half-image of a black man, Indian man, sitting near him, turning _something over in his hands, something important, something he'd once known - but why couldn't he remember it now?_

"...Who?" he knew he shouldn't be asking the question, but what if she _did_ know? - "And how? How could he do that?"

_Is it real? Is it true? Just a Shade. Just a Shade._

"By telling you Inception was possible. By telling you I killed myself."

And something in the way she said it, in the way she looked at him, eyes still glassed with tears, hair flying gently across her beseeching face... suddenly the idea of his beautiful, talented wife committing suicide seemed like the most absurd belief in the world.

Why _would_ she leave her children? Why _did _he believe so faithfully in Inception? How _could _he have accessed that deepest part of her mind, altered her reality, changed everything about her? _Impossible._

But then - the guilt, the guilt, falling down around him - _you know where you hope this train will take you -_

"Baby, you did. I know you did. You left us," Cobb's voice was breaking, and the pleading, innocent, begging look in Mal's face deepened unbearably, made Cobb want to gather her to him, kiss those beautiful eyes and cheeks and mouth -

"No, Dom. He tried to use your guilt to destroy you. He knew you loved me more than anything. He made you believe we had gone too deep, believe I would not wake up. Don't you see? It's his plan. And none of it was real."

It was loud enough to begin drowning their conversation, loud enough to feel the tension in the air from its rapid approach. The horn blew again, piercing and evil, sparks scattering from the swiftly turning wheels.

"You fell, Mal. You fell," Cobb persisted, heroically, as Mal shook her head, hair flowing side-to-side.

The train coming, coming, coming simply because they were standing there, waiting for it.

"It wasn't real, Dom. I'm still here. I'm waiting for you up above."

"No. No, baby. No."

Then, slowly, elegantly, Mal stepped onto the train track beside the Extractor. Cobb felt a guttural, singular pull as she did this - an almost violent urge to push her off the vibrating tracks, away from the screaming, sinister roar of the approaching train. His beautiful wife. She put a hand on either side of his face, and he was vividly aware of the honest, infinite expanse in her eyes. It captivated him.

"You will see, Dom. We'll go together, just like you dreamed before. But we'll wake up, and you'll see. You'll see."

The train coming, pounding, loud, fast, screaming -

"No, baby, no -"

"The train is here, Dom and _we'll be together -_"

They were hit, and scattered, like a thousand shards of broken light.

l-l

The man was tall and thick, with a mop of ferociously frayed blonde hair. Yusuf was handing him his duffle bag, so he could deposit it in the trunk of the cab. The Chemist was looking worriedly over each shoulder every few seconds.

"You alright, sir?" the man's accent was thick, but the Chemist couldn't quite pinpoint the nationality.

"I - yes, yes, fine..."

Ariadne had drawn away from Arthur, unwillingly, in the bar stock-room - but not quite enough to completely separate, not quite enough to break the embrace. She was aware of his chin, hovering close the top of her head. She was aware of the black buttons on his dark dress-shirt, and felt the compulsion to count them.

"Are you alright?" steady, deep, resonating. She looked up at him, hazy, struggling to get back her focus. _Don't fall apart. Don't fall apart._

She wondered if Arthur ever fell apart. If Arthur ever questioned his reality.

She nodded, slowly. He put his hand to rest on the small of her back again, and an involuntary reaction - a cool, relieved, easy feeling - trickled down her frame.

"No mistakes from now on," his face, chiseled, expressionless - but expressive in how his eyes remained fixed, intent, focused on the Architect. "No mistakes."

She nodded, dimly. Her one hand was still wrapped tightly around her tiny, golden totem.

Yusuf was leaning on the side of the cab when they exited the pub. He looked paranoid, edgy, sweaty; the effect of some cheap Belgium wine had not improved his spirits in the way he'd hoped. Instead he had a growing headache and a weak, half-sleepy feeling that made him all the more vulnerable.

Arthur squeezed Ariadne's arm once, for reassurance. The Architect nodded in mock confidence. She had appeared weak enough already before the infallible Point Man; she assumed his impression of her could not be favorable, not when she had nearly collapsed in the pub, _after she'd let someone in her mind, hadn't known it was a dream._

The Chemist nodded to the Point Man, who released Ariadne's arm, took a calculated step towards the car.

And the cab-driver grabbed Ariadne.

"Arth -!"

Her cry cut short, a pressure on her throat, like the mob-death, like fire and water in her chest.

Arthur reacted, instantly, turned, swung his jacket open, hand moving instantly to the Beretta strapped across his chest -

"I wouldn't."

Arthur's fingers gripped the gun, but he did not draw it out. The man's left arm was snaked around Ariadne's throat; his right hand gripped tightly to a small pistol, hidden partially by the sleeve of his coat, the barrel shoved deeply into Ariadne's side. She could feel the pressure of the metal, a spike of pain from where it jabbed into her flesh. His finger on the trigger like a whisper.

"Take it out. Slowly. Throw it in the bin."

For one infinite second, Arthur didn't move, his hand still on the Beretta. The blonde man, impatient, dug the gun deeper into Ariadne's side, and she finally let out a breathy, terrified gasp of pain.

Arthur's stone face hardly changed, but that quiet noise dissolved his defiance. Unwillingly, in horrible slow motion, he drew the pistol from the holster, keeping it half-hidden under his jacket. People strode by them without glancing, without noticing, without knowing what dangerous and delicate transaction elapsed beside the cab. In a quiet, almost unseen motion, Arthur moved the gun across his body and slid it, with a heavy _thunk,_ into the streetside trashcan.

"You. In the passenger's seat," he gestured Arthur towards the cab, then fixated on Yusuf. "You. Drive."

l-l

The _Rokugobashi _Bridge crossed the Tama River on the southern end of Tokyo. The river was not exceptionally large or dangerous; it was only rated a Class 1; but that didn't matter much when you were plummeting directly into it's cold, staring blue face, trapped inside the cruel metal of a bloody tiny Japanese car.

There were snippets, that Eames could remember clearly; being pursued by two large, black vans, down the busy Tokyo highway; the echoing, rising orchestra of car horns, screeching wheels, the constant, constant banging of gunfire. The scattered debris of metal and paint chipping as bullets found the car doors, the shattered shards of glass as the windows were shot out.

He remembered a loud, painful _bang_ as the back right tire was shot out, the swiftly following screech of metal tearing against asphalt.

He remembered the feeling of being weightless, and the numbing _crack _when they hit the water.

Something bad had happened in the process - something involving a piece of the bridge railing, and the driver's side of the door, and a high grating noise, and _a pain, pain, very real, very real and raw and slicing through him like fire -_

The Forger had swam, floundered, somehow, to shore, hidden by an outcrop of rocks and piled refuse. They'd taken Cobb, taken him and believed the Forger dead in the water - dead in the water because of the blossom of blood he'd left on his side of the car.

The railing of the bridge had torn a straight gash through the car door, through the seat, through Eames.

He lay shivering on the bank, clutching his ragged shirt to the messy, jagged slice in his side. _Bloody reality._ It was easier to deal with pain in a dream, really; easier to withhold the instinctive gasps of pain, the trembling movements of a wounded body, the headache and sea-sick feeling as the blood came out.

"You've got enemies in high places, Cobb," Eames muttered unhappily to himself, his head swimming. "May we never learn from your example."

l-l

Yusuf drove slowly, haltingly. He was severely impaired by the wine, by the man in the back seat of the car, who had a pistol shoved in Araidne's ribcage.

"Go slow, now. Take a right up here."

Arthur's eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror; fixed, unblinking, on the yellow-haired man in the back seat, who's hand clutched Ariadne's white, white throat, pressed the gun into her side. No one could know the terrible pounding in his chest; the ferocious fire of rage, of anxiety, of _what couldn't be fear_, that coursed in his veins. But the concentrated intensity in his eyes was threateningly, ominously unmistakable - the Point Man was not going to take the situation lying down.

"What have you done with Cobb?" Arthur's voice like stone.

Ariadne felt her thoughts reach out: _Do something. Do something. Just as safe in reality._

"I haven't done anything to him," the man replied, snidely. Ariadne felt a rush of disgust usher upwards through her body, as he grinned beside her. "...Not yet, anyway."

Arthur did not respond. He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror.

Yusuf let out a worried, upset groan, just quiet enough to make his discomfort apparent. He clutched the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were turning white; there were beads of sweat on his brow, on his neck, on his fingers. The car lurched uncertainly between varying speeds, as Yusuf tried to compensate for the traffic, for his own nervousness. The yellow-haired man seemed perturbed by his driving.

"Go slow, now. No need to make a scene of ourselves. Slow and steady."

A flash in Arthur's eyes that only Ariadne saw.

"That's it. Slow, like -"

" - No. Go faster."

Arthur's voice low, and terrible, and so much heavier with threat. Yusuf hesitated, glanced at the Point Man.

"You, _shut up_," hissed the yellow-haired man. "You, keep it slow."

"Faster," Arthur returned, and the Architect was staring into his eyes through the rear-view mirror. Yusuf seemed to hesitate, glance side-to-side, swallow his nerves - and his foot began to weigh down on the gas pedal. Their speed increased, gradually. Fifty miles an hour.

"Goddamnit it, _slow_, I said -"

"No. Give it more."

_Sixty miles an hour._

"You piece of _shit_! Pull off! Pull over -!"

_Seventy. Eighty._

The roar, roar, roar of the engine -

"_I said slow down!_"

"_Punch it, Yusuf_ - !"

And the Chemist, drunk, addled, slammed his foot into the pedal. The world became a blur.

The car was propelled forward, skimming horribly against the side of a parked car, leaping out into traffic, slamming them all backwards in their seats. Buildings flew by like colored flashes in a mosaic; cars and people screeched, screamed; the yellow-haired man, his curses lost beneath the sudden tumult of noise, speed, adrenaline, flailed his gun away from Ariadne and placed it against the back of Arthur's head.

Ariadne heard the click of the gun, even thrown back against her seat, even with Yusuf tearing through lane after lane, light after light, too petrified to realize how fast he was going, and the gun, the gun, _the gun against the back of Arthur's head _-

It was the motion he'd been waiting for.

As soon as the barrel touched his head, Arthur had swung, captured the man's arm, pulled him forward across his seat and into the front of the car -

- the gun went off -_ BANG_ - and there was a spurt of red, but _whose blood was it_? -

- Arthur's other arm already wrapped, exact, efficient, around the man's throat, pulling him towards the dashboard -

- Yusuf, letting out a surprised, deliberate cry -

- the Point Man, kicking the door open, his arm still wrapped, living iron, around their captors neck, and pulled them both out of the moving car.

Ariadne must have yelled - must have done something to distract Yusuf, something to make him swerve heavily and crush the front end of the cab into the standing brick side of a meat factory. The passenger's side door of the cab swung out and open, a metallic flag. Araidne stumbled from the car and into the street, the lanes of traffic parting to either side, honking, yelling, people staring -

Arthur and the yellow-haired captor were on the ground, a flying, bloody mess of fists and curses and kicks, and _whose blood was it, scattering across the street in drops of ruby-red? _It couldn't be certain who was winning - the captor had hit the ground first, and the back of his shirt was ripped through - but Arthur's whole right side was torn, jagged upwards, skin shredded with brilliant red road-rash and studded with gravel. The Point Man was on the defense, fending off the infuriated assault of their captor, who stumbled and cracked his fist into the side of Arthur's head.

Arthur's weight fell back on his left leg; he shifted against the blow and propelled forwards, barreling into the man's torso, sending them both flying back towards the cab and the open passenger door.

The captor ripped his shoulder on the side of the car; he yelled and thrashed at the Point Man, but Arthur was trained and instant - his fist found the man's jaw, and _both their fronts were covered in blood, but who'd been shot? _- and he fell on his ass, dazed, just beside where the car door opened.

Yusuf had stumbled from the cab. He turned, pressing his back against the brick wall to stabilize himself.

Ariadne felt a scream, a cry, a yell of warning rise in her throat as she saw their yellow-haired captor reach for something stable, to launch himself back at Arthur.

But Arthur's hand was already on the handle. He took it, threw all of his weight into _slamming it_ -

Slamming the man's head between the car and the door.

_Crunch._

The man dropped flat onto the street.

Ariadne felt numb. She didn't even notice Yusuf's drunken cursing; didn't notice the lines of traffic and stunned, horrified faces looking at them; didn't notice the people running, calling the police.

She was staring at Arthur, stooped over the body with the crushed skull, searching its pockets.

He used his left hand. His right forearm was red, red, red, and she could see - dark, dark crimson, the hole in his arm -

"Take this," his body was shaking as he handed her the wallet, the blood-stained documents. She did, automatically, unable to think. Arthur strode back to the car, his right arm still held inwardly to his chest, still bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. He picked up their captors gun from the front-seat floor, and the Architect felt a swell - a huge swell of immediate and consuming fear. _Arthur was shot._

Somehow, he was able to threaten someone with the gun, just long enough to get them away from their van. Somehow, he was able to get Yusuf back in the driver's seat, though the Chemist was severely impaired with fear. Somehow, Ariadne found herself in the back seat, clutching the wallet, the red-and-white document he'd pulled from the dead man's pocket. Somehow Arthur was next to her, and they were speeding away from the accident scene without immediate pursuit.

But once _in _the car - once out of sight, out of danger -

The gun dropped, _thunk_, to the floor, and Arthur collapsed against Ariadne.


	8. Losing Track

A bit of a longer chapter, I apologize, but it was fun XD I want to thank you all officially, again, for the reviews! They mean a lot!

/-\

The phone receiver crackled. In a dimly lit room, smelling strongly of wood and plaster, a short, fat man lit a cigarette. It brightened the wide, thick bust of his face, the strangely circular, dark-rimmed glasses that framed his eyes, the phone cradled between ear and shoulder.

Three figures lay asleep on low cots surrounding him. In the midst of them, lying unceremoniously on the floor, was a silver briefcase holding the dream mechanism device, PASIV; thin silver cords ran from the briefcase and into the waiting wrists of the sleepers, and the clock-time ticked down from _02:07:11._

The fat man had dialed an unusually long number into the phone, and was listening to the ring. It stopped, suddenly, and there was a muted hush as the correspondent picked up the other end.

"How're things on your end?" the fat man did not sound particularly interested.

"...Flynn. Flynn's dead."

"Arthur?"

"Yeah..."

"Good," the fat man took a deliberate drag of his cigarette and exhaled a heavy smoke.

"What?" the other man did not seem at ease with that response. "Flynn was our Extractor! He was the one who had the information from the girl -"

"Flynn has already debriefed us on what the girl knows," the fat man responded lazily, flicking the cigarette. "We're putting it to good use. For now, keep everything on the same track."

"But - who's going to -"

"Draw straws. You've all researched Nash - he's an idiot. It won't be that difficult for _you_."

/-\

"Yusuf, find a pair of forceps -"

But Arthur's eyes shut, tight with pain, and he hissed, lolled forward on the examination table. Ariadne caught him; he was firm and heavy, almost too heavy for her to support, and she could feel his blood seeping slowly into her shirt as he rested forwards on her shoulder. The Chemist began to pull out drawers, thrust apart cabinets in a half-tipsy, adrenaline-numbed state of panic, searching for the surgical instrument.

They were in a veterinary clinic. It was supposed to be closed - it was past seven on the weekend, and appointments were over, the doors locked up. Yusuf had broken in on Arthur's order. The clinic alarm was a cheap Belgian thing, rigged only to sound if one of the doors or front windows was broken open. As it was, they came in through a slim, back window that hung over the kennel, and remained undetected in the darkened building.

They were in the examination room, Arthur seated on the cold slab of metal, the air smelling heavily of dogs and drugs and bleach. There was a trail in the hallway of Arthur's blood, splattered red on the tiled floor.

Silent fear was strangling, paralyzing Ariadne. She was aware of Arthur's body, trembling, of his hammered, irregular breathing. He'd buried his face in her hair, momentarily, as though to escape the reality of the pain. Both of them wet with sweat and blood.

"...Oxycodone," Arthur said, and his voice broke slightly. "Behind the counter... find a bottle. Oxycodone."

She was reluctant, so reluctant to pull away - she was convinced he would collapse to the floor if she did - but he was nodding, vigorously, for her to go, cradling his bloody arm.

She found the counter in a daze, and began to search the shelves. Everything around her seemed dim and far away. She was clumsy; she dropped bottles and clanged cabinet doors, had to force herself to read, re-read labels three times, just to figure out was written there.

Finally, Ariadne clutched the white bottle in her hands. _Oxycodone_ _HCI with Acetaminophen._ She brought it to the Point Man, open, before realizing he'd need something to chase it. A half-gallon of water was resting beside a mostly empty water cooler in the adjoining room - but by the time she brought it back to Arthur, he was swallowing pills.

She didn't know how many he took, and she didn't ask. If Ariadne had ever studied in the medical field, she'd be worried about the dosage; Arthur was taking a drug hauntingly similar to morphine.

"I found some -" Yusuf held a pair of surgical forceps in his right hand. Arthur tore off the remains of his shirt - Ariadne gasped at the brilliant road-rash, blood-streak - and shoved his arm towards the Chemist.

"Do it. Get it out."

Yusuf was a chemist - not _any_ sort of doctor - and he was still swaying on the cheap Belgian wine. A sick, green look came into his face as he held the surgical forceps, the tweezer-like object he'd never seen before. It was clear what the Point Man _wanted _him to do - wanted him to shove the forceps into his still-bleeding wound and draw out the muted stud of lead bullet.

It took the Chemist a moment to gather himself, to ignore the impulse to vomit, to place the forceps steadily in his hand. Ariadne, standing on the other side of the examination table, felt Arthur's good arm reach out, reach out and grab her, pull her to him. He placed his face into the nook of her neck, of her chest, his good arm gripping her so hard his fingers dug in and _hurt._

Ariadne watched as Yusuf inserted the forceps into Arthur's arm - the swell of dark red blood the bloomed around the cold metal as it slid into the Point Man, as Arthur exhaled a horrible sound into her chest -

She shut her eyes and clutched Arthur, her one hand buried in the messed, slick strands of his hair, her other arm wrapped like a shield around his head. She heard his agony, realized she could _feel_ it.

"It's ok. It's ok. It'll be over - It'll be over soon - it's ok baby, it's ok -"

She hardly knew what she was saying, but Arthur didn't stop her, just breathed, groaned irregularly into her chest as Yusuf sought the bullet.

It seemed like an eternity before she heard the relieving sound - _chink_ - of Yusuf dropping the bloody bullet into the trash can.

"Celox. Find it."

Precious minutes of tearing through drawers, of emptying shelves, as Arthur's arm griped Ariadne so tight she _knew _there'd be a bruise. Then there was Yusuf, holding up a packet that read: _Celox - Haemostatic Granules. _He tore off the top of the package and pressed it against the open, dark-red bullet hole in Arthur's arm. The bleeding slowed. Arthur pulled away from the Architect, just long enough to grasp at the bottle of water she'd brought in with her.

The Point Man was pale, pale as he desperately guzzled down the half-gallon of water and another innocently white, 30mg oxycodone pill.

"Good. Good," Arthur exhaled a guttural sigh; the oxycodone was taking effect. "Watch the front. Yusuf - watch the front."

/-\

Cobb was in bed. He felt the sheet around him, cool and endless, and blinked, staring up at the paneled wood ceiling. He was in bed at home, the morning light coming in softly through the windows.

And Mal was still there, beside him. She was sitting up, half of her face lighted in the warm orange glow from the window, the other half in darkness.

He leapt up to sitting position, startled at her presence, suddenly remembering the train - the dream - her insane words - and felt a strange tug at his arm. He looked down at his wrist; there was a silver chord, running into his wrist, from within an open silver briefcase.

"It's ok, take it out," Mal's voice was soft, clear, and so different from the haunting tone she used down in the dream. She began to undo the strap on his arm. _But no - you left us - you're waiting for a train -_

"I'm still dreaming -"

Cobb began, but silenced by a high bout of laughter from down the hallway -

_And image of James, blowing bubbles on the porch._

"No, Dom, no. Look."

She held up something small, metal - and Cobb's eyes recognized the delicate spinning-top, the one he'd spun so often in dream and in reality, the one he'd found in the depth of her subconscious.

"Watch, Dom. Watch."

She leaned slightly across him, and he was struck by the fact he couldn't remember what she smelled like - it'd been so long, so long since he'd been so vividly aware of her. The dreams had faded and dulled her memory to a Shade, but now she seemed new, brilliant, _real _-

Mal dropped the top onto the nightstand, and it began to spin.

They both watched it, watched it for what seemed an eternity. Glimpses of memories passed in Cobb's head; of holding a gun against his temple as the top spun, the steady thumping of his heart as he waited and wondered_ will this be the time I pull the trigger? _Of Mal sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with the top between her fingers, inches from the butcher's knife, and _was he so sure of his reality?_

The top spun. Spun.

It wobbled.

It _fell._

His heart was drumming in his ears, in his eyes, in his throat. He stared at the top, fallen over on the nightstand.

"My death - Inception - Saito - it's all a trick. It was all a trick, and you're finally awake -" Mal's voice like sobbing music -

_The top fallen over. The top fallen over._

"Please, Dom - don't you see me? Can't you feel I'm real?"

And her hand brushed across his brow, and he turned and looked into his _real wife's eyes_, and -

"_Oh Jesus Christ, Mal -_"

He kissed her, crying, the whole of him flooding out into her like a tidal wave. She captured him as he cried, her beautiful, unmarred form complementing his exactly, two together making perfection from imperfection.

He kissed her constantly, repeatedly, deeply, desperately. He sobbed and said things against her skin. She cried, too, out of relief, out of vanished fear, out of love.

/-\

The road-rash had transformed Arthur's skin to the texture of mangled sandpaper. The blossom of raw, pink-red burn streaked across his side, the vague, upwards slanting shape of a feather. All around its frayed edges, the wound grew a jagged black and purple; gravel was still embedded in the shredded mess of his flesh, the thin red lines of blood dripping down from a dozen lacerations.

He didn't flinch as she cleaned it, the odor of hydrogen peroxide staining them both. The oxycodone was coursing through him now, and it was giving him varying sensations of euphoria that he was struggling to stem and control. He swayed oddly on the examination table.

"Arthur?" Ariadne said his name for about the sixth time. She had wrapped his arm in gauze and bandage, and was starting to do the same for his side. He'd lifted his arms awkwardly in the air, so she could could wrap the bandage around his torso.

"I'm alright," he lied so smoothly, she almost believed him.

He ran a massaging, lazy hand over his face. Ariadne almost had to smile - he was more relaxed now than she'd ever seen him before, absolutely high on the painkiller.

"Yeah, I bet you're up in the sky with Lucy," Ariadne joked aside. Arthur gave a half-laugh, halted by the way his body shook (with pain, if he could have felt it) when his diaphragm moved. "...Jesus, I don't know what you were thinking. He could've -"

But she stopped before she could say it. _He could've killed you. _The Architect looked up at the Point Man, and was startled to find him staring at her. There was more expression in his stone-chiseled face than she thought possible.

"I said you'd be safe with me. I failed at that once. I won't again. I have to protect you."

And his voice was steady again, even under the driving influence of the painkiller. Her heart beat, muted, in her chest.

"Why do you... why do you have to protect me?" _A dangerous, beautiful, half-formed idea._

"I have to," he repeated, and his eyes - glazed, filled with something she couldn't quite name - something dreamy, filled with desire and doubt and urgency.

"Why?" she blinked away a hot feeling in her eyes, and shook her head. "God - you know, I wish - I wish I knew _why _-"

Shakily, but immediately, swiftly, his hand was in her hair, against the back of her neck.

_A half-second, and his lips like fire._

It ended as quickly as the first. But he didn't draw away this time. His forehead touched hers, and she was bathed in the smell of hydrogen peroxide, the musk of his skin and sweat... his fingers kneaded the hair against the back of her head. She let out a soft, involuntary noise of surprise and - _something that couldn't be..._

"...Imagination. You make things I can't even... beautiful... you're... a maze. A maze. And I want to know... what's at the end..."

His eyes closed, pinched shut, as a wave of tangled euphoria shot up through his body, numbing him entirely. He swayed, and Ariadne caught him before he could fall from the examination table.

/-\

Eames, limping, paler than usual, clutched the license plate number of the black van, scribbled on a diner napkin. It was not coincidence that he remembered the image of the license plate: part of being a flawless Forger was a talent for photographic memory. The ability to see a man's signature once, and duplicate it with a significant amount of skill, was par for the course. Eames had been at the game long enough to know the skill set that kept you alive - a fast, tricky tongue, a good distraction, an attention to detail. He'd been wanted dead by enough gamblers and casino-owners in his time, and had developed an impressive habit of talking his way out of almost any situation.

His forging skills had come in handy when he'd glanced the black van, pulling Cobb into the back seat. _AVN-802._

He'd stitched himself up, partially, with a first-aid kit he'd found lodged in the back staff-room of the diner - where he'd also written the number on the napkin. Patching up a freshly-bleeding gash with thin gauze and white tape was not the most efficient treatment, and Eames was bending heavily to one side. He was lucky, in one respect; the gash was flesh only, no ribs pierced, nothing punctured - but that didn't make the experience any less annoying.

From there, it was a matter of locating Cobb, but that job in itself did not pose much difficulty. Believing he was dead, their assailants would not be too careful to cover their tracks. Besides this, Eames knew how dream-agents behaved, and it took only a few hours of perusing the city in a taxi cab to locate the van. Crowded areas were out of the question; low-traffic quarters, factories, barren city borders - those were the sorts of places you brought someone, if you wanted to hold them under for any extended period of time. If Eames hadn't been so content and willing in the illegality of his Forger job, he actually would've made a fairly decent sort of psychiatrist. The Brit had an elegant talent of divulging the nature of subjects and how to emotionally manipulate them; this was convenient when trying to predict the actions of others, specifically of enemy dream-agents trying to Eradicate him.

The van was parked out front of an abandoned meat factory. The windows were boarded up and layered with dust; but the slim side-door, a faded grisly green from years of disuse, was wedged open with a scrap piece of wood.

Eames had no gun, no defense against whatever awaited him inside the meat locker. He remained near the door for a long, long time, listening intently to whoever, whatever dwelled inside the dark building - but after nearly a half hour of waiting, listening, he'd heard only the rustle of the wind, and his patience wore out.

The door opened with a very subtle, metallic whine. Eames froze as light flooded in, and he saw -

- no one. The room was empty. Eames walked in, haltingly, still limping from his torn side. He glanced uncertainly at the rusted meat-hooks, the old chopping boards and blocks, the cold metallic surfaces and shadows hanging in the corners.

In the back, wedged into the wall, was the door to an old meat locker.

The Forger crouched slowly down beside the rust-covered counter, glancing at the iron door. There was a dim, but flickering light coming from within, shining out the door porthole.

He searched for some sort of weapon. A number of broken pieces from the ceiling had found their way to the floor; he picked up a rather large, fractured piece of cement, and tried to think. What plan of action did he have? Did he even know what kind of people he was dealing with?

_Come on, Eames, think around it - who in all God's world wants Cobb Eradicated?_

The Forger poured over every possible scenario in his mind. A member of Fischer's entourage - Browning, maybe? No - Browning had gotten away with a good share of the former Fischer enterprise, and had no financial reason to pursue such a dangerous course of action. Another enemy of Saito? He _had _put them all on the radar, but - but why _now? _It'd been four months since Saito's blunder at the wedding. Why would the Eradicator wait so long to attack Saito, to attack them? And why _Saito_, first? He was the least dangerous, the least experienced. Why not go after Cobb, and then follow with the rest of the team as it fell apart, devoid of a leader?

He shook his head, disappointed at his inability to make sense of the situation. Who was pulling this job? Why were they being targeted? Could it really be all because of Inception?

The meat locker door opened with a low _creak. _Eames' eyes darted to the door, clenched the cement rock in his hand.

The man was short, and fat, with thick round glasses. He looked more like a squirrelly cubicle-worker than a dream-agent, and definitely did not resemble Eames' vision of an Eradicator. He'd come outside to light a cigarette, striking a match ever so pleasantly and impartially, his eyes cast downwards.

The cement slammed into his shoulder, but the fat man hardly seemed to notice. He turned and looked, impassively, in Eames direction. The Brit had a significant notion he had just dived in well over his head, but decided - _to hell with it._

"Cheerio, gorgeous," he grinned, and began backing up.

The fat man spat out the cigarette and launched into Eames.

/-\

The matter of where to sleep fell to Yusuf's discretion; he opposed the chairs in the waiting room, for obvious reasons - too vulnerable beneath the large, front windows, and too uncomfortably hard. The second suggestion was to sleep in the veterinarian's office, but it was locked, and they feared setting off some alarm solely for acquiring the random comfort of a leather desk chair. The last option had been the kennel runs - and while this was not a particularly endearing idea, they were located in the back of the clinic, and relatively safe.

Ariadne covered the floor of the kennel with the red and yellow towels they used for boarding animals. They smelled strongly of dogs, but they created a better bed than the cold floor of the run. When she believed she'd assembled a half-decent, semi-thick towel-cot for Arthur to lay on, she brought him into the back room. He glanced uncertainly at the make-shift bed, and turned towards her.

"Where are you going to sleep?"

She'd never seen his eyes this way before - filmy, drug-hindered, trying so hard to focus but unable to do so.

"I hadn't thought about it," she admitted. He blinked at her.

"You... have this. I'll make my own."

"Arthur!" she grabbed his good arm - the one without the bullet hole - before he could reach up and pull down another towel. He eyes widened, looked at her, glazed and surprised like he hadn't expected her to move so fast. "Arthur... come on. Lie down. Jesus, let me... you don't _have _to be completely rigid all the time, you know..."

It could've been the drugs - she was almost definitely sure it was the drugs - but her comment made a grin break on his face that seemed completely unlike him. It was wide, and loose, and almost laughing.

He laid down on his left side, with his back to the kennel wall. Ariadne got down on her knees, tucking a rolled up towel under his head. His hair was frayed, messy, out of place. Gently - without even knowing she did it - Ariadne touched it with the palm of her hand, smoothing it down.

It stirred Arthur. He reached out, oddly, instinctively, and put his hand on her jean-covered thigh. It was the arm with the bullet-hole, and it was shaking.

"...Where are we going?" his voice still deep, still resonating, but - _vulnerable, and it made Ariadne's skin prickle, made her heart swell and push outwards, reach to him from within her chest. _"...I hear the ocean."

He didn't hear the ocean, Ariadne knew. What he heard was the clinic's heating system, springing to a hum of life as Yusuf turned it on. He was high on oxycodone, and imagining things.

She could have told him that. She could have told him it was just the heating. That he was probably hallucinating, or hearing things, or _what is real - do you think he is - ?_

...But maybe she was tired. She became dreamy, distant when she was tired, a side-effect of her over-imagination, of what made her a great Architect.

"...We... you're right. We're going to the ocean. We're standing in the water."

What was happening? She thought she saw it, as she said it. Not lying in a dark kennel, on a bed made of towels that smelled of dogs and bleach; but on sand, soft, white, forming the sweeping, endless shore of crashing waves and barren land that swept forever just waiting to be built, imagined, shared -

"The tide is coming in," Arthur's voice dimming, fading away into sleep.

The rush of the heater had swelled - not nearly warm enough for the Chemist from Mombasa, Kenya, used to the blaring humidity - and it sounded almost like a wave crashing, striking Ariadne like _a brilliant and terrible and half-formed idea._ Arthur's cologne washed away by the scent of dogs, bleach, hydrogen peroxide, sweat - but she imagined she could smell it still.

"...and if you stay where you are, you could be lost in the water."

The idea itself, not completely unwelcome. Lost in a tossing ocean until you washed up on shore, in a reality _that didn't exist but felt so real..._

"...I'm not afraid..."

Quiet now. Overcome with the stress of the day - the panic and excitement and _what couldn't be fear. _Did they know what was happening anymore? Did it matter? His hand on her thigh, and her hand in his hair, and the darkness of the kennel.

"You aren't?"

"No. Not if you're lost with me."

Arthur's eyes shut, finally. He'd given his last shred of strength to utter these words, and now he succumbed to exhaustion.

Ariadne had a feeling, then, like she understood. Understood something very deep inside herself, as she lay looking at his hard-lined face, his hand still resting on her leg, keeping her near him - _how can it not matter to you where this train will take you -?_

She laid down next to him. His hand kneaded her thigh in his sleep. She lightly pressed her forehead onto his, closed her eyes, drifted away.

The idea, now fully formed.

Beautiful.

_Dangerous._


	9. Down the Rabbit Hole

I apologize for the long delay with this chapter, I didn't have internet for about a week! But here's the next installment, and thanks for reading!

/-\

Ariadne still dreamed, still dreamed regularly, naturally, even after Inception. After Cobb warned her, _eventually this becomes the only way you can dream._

She dreamed cold. Cold and cool on her skin like a sea-breeze, bringing the taste of salt. She shivered. Red and yellow lights flashed, flashed, on and off. The pulsing lighting of an elevator in descent, though she could not feel its movements.

Was she going up? Down? For a long time, she couldn't tell, and she couldn't even be sure _which elevator it was_ - the terrible, haunting, gated elevator of Cobb's distraught subconscious, pouring through memories fueled by regret? Or the warm, red, silver-doored elevator she'd created for Arthur's dream, that led to snug hotel rooms but harbored a _danger because if Fischer's subconscious - but why are they looking at us - ? _

She shook. She saw her breathe, escape from her lips in a white mist. Lights flashing on the elevator.

Terror consumed her. Broken glass and champagne, dripping, dripping in brilliant silver droplets from the ebony-black hotel table. The smell of perfume and roses, and Mal turning towards her from the couch, eyes like fire - _what are you doing here__ -?_

_Just as safe in reality._

Another elevator - and another startling, drastic change in emotion, diving into relief, comforted by the stiff but safe feeling of a pale hotel couch. A dozen pairs of eyes on them, but beside her the sleeve of a pressed suit, the glint of red tie - _quick, give me -_

More than barely. _You could be lost to the water._

She dreamed, for a moment, of the kennel. The cool, dark kennel, and the line of Arthur's face, barely visible. Silver in the shadows behind him.

/-\

"I'm on your side. I swear I am -"

Arthur was filling the doorway, blocking Nash's exit from the room. There was a scalpel in his right hand, shirtless, arm still wrapped in gauze and bandage, but the Point Man wasn't even flinching. Nash resembled a man trampled by a bull; the entire left side of his face was a bruised, mashed palette of purple and blue, one long, still-bleeding gash running across his cheek. His shirt was torn up to the elbow, his pant leg shredded and damp with old blood. He limped when he moved.

Ariadne's heart was racing. _How did it get here? _

The body of a woman was lying on the floor_._

Yusuf was checking her for a pulse. Ariadne stood behind Arthur, peculiarly aware of how she could feel him in front of her, as she did on the train, as she did in Inception. From around his arm, she caught the pleading, desperate look in Nash's eyes, as he flashed them over the new Architect.

Someone rang the doorbell to the clinic front-room, but no one moved to answer it.

"...She's alive..." the Chemist acknowledged with some relief. The woman was mid-thirties, maybe, a vicious redhead. Her face was contorted in a surprised, close-eyed mask, the effect of a rather sudden and unwelcome nap.

"I had to put her out," Nash insisted, but he didn't take a step towards anyone. There was a silver briefcase in his hand.

"You should be dead, Nash," Arthur hissed it between clenched teeth as Nash, swallowing fear, backed against the wall. "We saw Saito's men take you away. They turned you over to Cobol."

"Yeah, thanks for the rescue," Nash remarked, with what may have been his last bit of courage.

"Thanks for selling us out," Arthur retorted, instantly. "You got what you deserved."

Ariadne looked to Yusuf for help; obviously there was some old history between the Point Man and the stranger, and it was not much to Arthur's liking. He was rigid, unmoving, in the doorway. _He didn't even seem to regard the searing pain in his arm._

"Look - look, I'm on your side," Nash struggled, obviously pathetic before the stiff, unrelenting statue of Arthur. "They have Cobb. They're... Eradicating him."

Only the slight, increased furrow in Arthur's brow betrayed the effect of Nash's words. People walked by the clinic doors, stared in at the assembly of foreigners, obviously perplexed at the stranger-filled clinic.

"...You're working for them," it wasn't a question. It was a statement. The abashed, embarrassed, fearful fidgeting of Nash proved it, and Ariadne wondered how Arthur could see through people with such clarity.

"I was," Nash rushed to say. "I was - but I can't anymore. They keep asking me to do things - I mean - goddamnit, I'm just an Architect -"

"You're a coward," Arthur took a ferocious step towards his ex-colleague, and Nash backed into the wall, muttering furiously.

"I know, I know, but I just want to get out - I don't want to do it anymore -"

"_Tell me where Cobb is!_"

Arthur's voice shook the room, cutting the air so violently that Ariadne jumped, shivered, felt an awful rush of adrenaline. Nash cowered, lowered into the corner, half-hiding behind the silver briefcase. The Point Man stood towering in the midst of the room, filling it, his usually expressionless faced twisted - just slightly, but horribly - with rage.

"I - I don't know exactly where! They don't -"

"Oh yeah?"

And suddenly Arthur grabbed the ex-Architect, lifting him clear to his flailing feet and slamming him onto the metallic examinations table. Ariadne lurched forward, but Yusuf grabbed her shoulders and held her in the doorway. Her heart was beating so fast it hummed; Arthur's bandaged arm was on the back of Nash's neck, forcing his bruised face against the cold table, the Architect whimpering pathetically.

"I swear - I swear -"

"Maybe I can help you remember," and Arthur pressed the shining scalpel to Nash's ring finger. Ariadne watched, paralyzed, as the Point Man slowly pressed down the scalpel, enough to let a small sliver of blood bloom against Nash's skin.

Her head swam. She was terrified, terrified - she'd never seen him like this.

"No! no!" Nash's cries where shaky, high-pitched. "No - please - I swear _I don't know_ -"

"_Then tell me what you do know_!" that cutting, terrible voice again, and Ariadne trembling, unable to speak. Nash close to sobbing.

"I don't know - they kept talking about Cairo, and Stein - and, and surrogates, and you and Cobb and - God please, I couldn't make sense of it, honestly -"

Someone banged on the front door, angrily, a disgruntled customer who's appointment was long overdue. The team inside had barricaded that door, it seemed; the door shook but didn't move, and the banging became mingled with muffled shouts of rage.

"Stein?" the name obviously struck some cord. Arthur released Nash, throwing him against the wall, where he slid to the floor beside the unconscious woman. "What the hell would that have to do with anything?"

"Please, I don't know," Nash whimpered, shaking his head lamely. "I just want out -"

"Was she one of your team?" Arthur gestured, distinctly, at the unconscious woman on the floor. Nash paused, then nodded vigorously, viewing it as an opportunity to escape the situation.

"Yeah - yeah. We were tracking you here, and - this other guy, Flynn, he's the guy you killed. He Extracted her -" and he pointed feebly at Ariadne. Arthur's eyes fell on the Architect, but while her gaze shook and swam with fear, his remained unreadable. "And they'd talk, all the time, about surrogates, and Stein, and how they had to get to Cobb -"

"Does she know where Cobb is?" Arthur demanded, pointing the scalpel at the redhead. Nash looked down at the woman and thought, trembling. Slowly, he began to nod.

"...Yeah. yeah. Probably. I mean, she'd make calls, and mention - but she'll never tell, she's Russian, they trained her -"

"She doesn't have to tell us," and Arthur, in one fluid motion, grabbed and wrenched the silver briefcase out of Nash's hands. Nash made an instinctive move to lunge after it, but stopped himself before he could collide into the Point Man.

"What are you doing?" Yusuf found his voice at last, but Ariadne wondered if she'd ever speak again. _Arthur's raised voice, like thunder, like the shock of a sudden crash, slamming into her._

"We're going into her mind," Arthur tore open the cabinets above the table and began to pull down clean towels. The banging on the front door continued, and some people were pressing their face against the window, trying to look in on the foreigners.

"Why?" the breathy, scared tone of Ariadne's voice was so unfamiliar, even Arthur paused, casting her a look the barely breathed concern.

"To find out where Cobb is," Arthur's voice lowered when in her direction. She felt an idea rush through her mind: _he didn't want to scare her. Just as safe in reality._

"What about him?" Yusuf gestured towards the still-cowering Nash, the ex-Architect praying to be overlooked, forgotten.

"Sedate him. He's going in with us. We might be able to use him - and that way I can keep an eye on him, too."

"Wait - I don't want -"

"_I don't give a damn what you want, Nash_. Yusuf, find a sedative and put him under."

Yusuf nodded obediently, squeezing Ariadne's arm reassuringly. The Architect felt a slight pull for the brotherly affection of the Chemist, but he'd left the room before she could respond to his gesture. Nash muttered unhappily to himself in the corner, but didn't dare to move with Arthur's watchful eye still on him.

The Point Man placed the silver briefcase on the examination table beside the stack of towels. Without ever letting Nash leave his sight, he opened the case and examined the complicated mechanism inside. After a few seconds of study, he grasped a few silver cords and began drawing them from the brief case. The Chemist re-entered, and Ariadne

"I think they're going to call the police," Yusuf meant the unhappy customers outside the clinic. There was a surgical sedative in his hand, some form of animal tranquilizer for prolonged operations. Ariadne could only read half the label - _Acepro _- and it did not comfort her. He had a clean, clear syringe in his other hand.

"No..." Nash began to shake his head, backing into the cabinets.

"I can still take the finger," Arthur hissed between clenched teeth. It was not a threat; it was a statement. Nash stared wildly at the Point Man, his fingers curling up instinctively, before finally stretching his wrist to Yusuf.

"Ariadne," she shivered, even though his voice was calm again, even though his face had returned to its chiseled, expressionless equilibrium. He stood close to her, just close enough to make her feel the slight heat radiating from his body. "Do you remember that one level you built - the train station? The one you based from Grand Central?"

She found she hardly knew what he said, staring so intently into his eyes. She felt his gaze, more than saw it; felt the pulsing, angry pounding of his heart, the intensity in which he regarded her, the bare skin and bandage, the slicked hair still unkept from sleep. And she could feel herself, weak in comparison, barely reaching his shoulder, tussled brown hair half-shielding the uncertainty in her face.

"...Ariadne," and she felt his large, calloused hand on her arm, and he felt the smoothness of her leather jacket, the smallness of her frame. "...Do you remember?"

"I... I think so," she managed, then closed her eyes, shook her head deliberately to remember. "yeah... yeah I know it. The station. Yeah."

"I need you to come in with me," and Arthur seemed severely loathe to say it, knowing the kind of danger this idea implied. "You know it better than I do. That's the level we'll use when we Extract from her."

Nash's head had dropped in Yusuf's hand, the sedative taking swift effect. The Chemist palced a towel under his head as he sank into the floor, and then turned his attention on the unconscious redhead.

"Wait, I..." Ariadn'e suddenly drew closer to Arthur, and whispered. "I haven't studied that one in awhile. What if we get lost?"

_How can it not matter to you? - the tide is coming in - a train that will take you far - if you stay as you are, you could be lost to the water -_

Arthur, another step closer to her, and she was aware that the smell of bleach and dogs no longer stained him. His cologne was not there, either, washed away.

"I'll be with you," Arthur's lips very close now, his bare shoulders framing around her, a human shield. "Ariadne... stay close to me in the dream. I'll keep you safe."

His dark, flaming eyes were almost too much for her - she had to resist the urge, the impulse, _come get lost, stand in the water with me -_

His hand touched her back again, the beautiful memory of Trafalgar Square, and his smile that showed more in his eyes than his mouth. Another impulse, a strange desire to lie down beside him in the kennel again, to prolong that touch and passing smile, widen it, deepen it...

She lay down on the slick floor beside Arthur, who kept his eyes on her. The Point Man instructed Yusuf; barricade the door; we'll only need an hour; keep the public out and lock them in the examination room. Make sure Arthur woke up before anyone else.

As Yusuf inserted the silver cord into her arm, Ariadne found herself perplexed, entranced by the patterns on the clinic floor. It was a blue-diamond tile pattern, spotless, shining with strange shadows from the dim examination light. It bothered her, that pacing symmetrical pattern.

She looked over at Arthur. His expression was set, refusing to show anything - pain, apprehension, _what couldn't be fear. The more you change things..._

"...The floor," she finally said, in nothing more than a whisper.

Arthur's eyebrows knitted ever so slightly. His eyes fell, studying the hard, slick floor, as Yusuf reached to press the release in the silver suitcase. Blue-diamond tiling.

It must have dawned on them both, at the same time - Arthur's oxycodone hangover but _only dull pain from a ripping bullet wound, though he'd taken no extra painkiller?_ - and the floor, slick, clean, but the clinic _had linoleum floors, didn't it, a black-and white checkered pattern - ?_

And the people - the people - the people _banging on the door, staring in through the windows, but not staring at them, but at **Nash** -_

"No -"

But Yusuf had pressed the release, and they were under.

/-\


End file.
